Food For Thought
by Abinikai
Summary: Harry's depressed. Draco's abused and depressed. And now they have to spend the rest of the summer together? Then the Dark Lord calls, and everything goes to hell. See how they help themselves and, in the process, help each other. HarryDraco SLASH. PreHBP
1. Could it Possibly Get Worse?

A/N: This is your typical Draco-and-Harry-help-eachother story, but hopefully told in a not-so-typical way. Let me know what you think. Johnny (my muse) will be looking forward to your reviews.

**Important note:** this story is set in Harry's Sixth Year. No, I will not change the story, or discontinue the story (if I'm lucky), just because my plot line does not agree with that of JKR's. Remember, this is fanfic—it is, essentially, an alternate reality—_my_ alternate reality. JKR can deal with it if I come up with better plotlines than she can.

**Yet another important note (the most important, I might add):** This is (will be) **SLASH**. That means **Male/Male** pairings. If you have a problem with that, please leave now. I will NOT tolerate flames just because you happened not to see the warning signs.

Here is your one and only **disclaimer** (no more multiple disclaimers like in other stories, just for kicks): I AM NOT JKR (dammit!). I did not invent Harry Potter and the things associated with him; I am, in no way, making money off this fanfic. It is merely for my entertainment, and maybe the entertainment of my readers—whomever they may be. Please do not sue.

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter One: Could it possibly get worse?**

**xxx**

Harry had already done all his homework. He had even done his Potions homework—and then he had checked it twice. He had played every game he could find or remember—and some he invented, sadly enough. He had read every book in the house, even the ones on Potions or Magical History. He had cleaned every nook and cranny of the house—by hand, no less. He had explored the entire place, making up stories for rooms he had found. He had gone through all the things in the attic—boy, there was some weird stuff up there—and imagined what half the items were used to, or who they belonged to. And now he had nothing to do, and that was bad.

After spending a month with the Dursleys to ensure he had 'blood protection,' or whatever the hell it was he needed from that family, Dumbledore had allowed Harry to return to Grimmauld place. Harry had been happy, at first—to get away from the Dursleys, live by himself. He wanted to escape the cruel, unsympathetic outlook of the Dursleys.

Then he had realized what he missed most about the Dursleys—the distractions. They had always kept him busy. Whether it was washing, cooking, cleaning, organizing, or some other menial task, the Dursleys had always had something for him to do. He couldn't sit down for one moment before someone was yelling at him again—"Stop being lazy, boy!"

Here, there wasn't anyone or anything to distract him in such a way. Once he was done doing something…that was it. There wasn't another person around to point out something he had missed. So after he had done his homework, read the books, explored…he found himself thinking. And that was never a good thing.

Harry would think about Sirius. He hadn't allowed himself much time to think about Sirius's death—it only depressed him. He had caused it, of course. If he had been more sensible, more responsible—maybe a little smarter, or braver—Sirius would be with him today. And it would be Sirius complaining about having nothing to do, not him.

The more time Harry had on his hands, the more he thought. The guilt welled up in him after only two days of thinking, which was when he decided he didn't like being depressed all the time. Or, rather, his friends had come over, pulled him out of his depression, and pointed out he wasn't helping anyone by moping around the house all the time. So Harry cleaned the house, cooked, read more (Hermione had an extensive collection of books, and all he had to do was ask), slept a bit more than usual, re-cleaned the house, explored even more…he found he was once again without things to do.

Sure, Hermione and Ron visited often—but often enough, for they had lives, too. They had finally discovered each other, and were often going on dates, and—frankly—Harry was a little jealous. He felt guilty about it, of course. How could he be jealous of them? He should be rejoicing. He had hoped they would come to their senses—he had been anticipating this day for longer than he could remember, now. But a small part of him—okay, a large part of him—was incredibly hurt and jealous. They were a new couple, he knew; they needed to spend time together. But that didn't stop him from feeling like a third wheel, feeling slightly unwanted and unnecessary at times. He suppressed the jealousy as best he could—he did not want to bring his friends down with him in his depression.

If Harry were able, he would go outside—take a walk, fly his broom, explore the neighborhood. Maybe even visit Diagon Alley, or some other place. But Harry wasn't able—Dumbledore had politely asked (commanded) that Harry stay at the house and not leave, for fear of a deadly Voldie-attack. So Harry could not fly or walk or visit. No. Much like Sirius had been last year, Harry was captive in his house (yes, his house; Sirius had left it to him, which only made Harry feel guiltier). It was a comfortable house, but it was still a house—it was small and unpopulated except for himself (Kreacher had died shortly after Sirius's death, much to Harry's relief; he wouldn't be able to stand this place with that miserable house elf, even if it would be a distraction). It didn't feel like his house, though. He didn't feel like he deserved to stay here. And yet, Harry was forced to stay.

That left Harry alone—once again—and captive, which left him to think of Sirius. No distractions, no help avoiding the nasty truth. He had caused Sirius's death, and that was all Harry could think about.

Which explained why Harry was stretched out on the couch, a miserable, gloomy, far-away look on his face. He had, officially, run out of things to do. He had exhausted his current supply of Hermione's books, and she would be back Wednesday to pick them up and drop off a few more. It was Sunday, though, and Wednesday was a long ways off.

If he had not killed of Sirius, he would not be in this position. Sirius would be keeping him company right now. They would have a conversation about his parents, or maybe talk about their future, once Sirius's name was cleared. But Sirius was not here, and Harry would never have those conversations—he could only imagine what they would be like.

A tear slipped down Harry's check as he sat alone in the house he wasn't allowed to leave. It would be a long summer.

**xxx**

Draco winced, but didn't move otherwise. He kept his face as outwardly calm as he could—it would not be good to anger his father further. So he stood stoically in the middle of the room, eyes unwavering and hands shaking only a little.

Lucius stalked around him, never taking his eyes off the boy in front of him. It was clear Draco was scared, and that only made him angrier. "Why are you frightened?" he screamed. "Why do you flinch when I come hear you? I am your _father_. You should not be afraid of me—you should worship me!"

"Yes, father," said Draco, wincing as his voice cracked. That wasn't good.

Lucius used his cane to hit Draco in the stomach as hard as he could. Draco doubled over in pain, but quickly forced himself to stand upright again. His father did not like it when he could not support himself. Draco forced his arms back down by his sides, willing himself to not clutch his stomach, no matter how badly it hurt. He almost wished Lucius would hit him in the face—just once. Lucius never hit his face, though. It was supposed to be beautiful and perfect, Draco knew, and how could it be perfect if he had a bruised eye, or a split lip? So blows were always aimed for the lower body—where bruises (among other things) were less likely to show, and people were less likely to ask questions.

"You have been disrespectful all summer, boy." That wasn't true—Draco had spent every minute of his summer being a good little boy, and he knew it. His father was just crazy, and the crazy man took special pleasure with beating Draco once or twice a week, usually for no reason. He didn't even know what he had done this time to make Lucius angry. But he knew it wasn't a good idea to speak out against his father right now—it would only make matters worse. "What do you have to say to that, Draco?"

"I apologize. I will be better behaved from now on." Draco really hated these talks.

Lucius paused behind Draco. Draco tensed, if only slightly. He never liked it if he couldn't see his father. He closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm. He knew he wouldn't like what was going to come next, but he had no idea what that thing might be, or how bad it would end up.

Suddenly, Lucius kicked the back of his knees, and Draco fell to the floor, unable to support himself any longer. Lucius kneeled on Draco's back, pressing his weight into the slight body as forcefully as he could. Lucius reached down and wrapped his hands in Draco's hair, getting ready to do something horrid that might actually—for once in his life—damage Draco's face.

Just as Lucius was about to take the next step, bright lights began flashing throughout the room, and probably throughout the rest of the house. A sound like a banshee wailing permeated the air, and it only took a second for Draco to realize what was happening—the wards had been breeched. Someone was entering the house without permission. And it wasn't likely to be a good or friendly visit.

Lucius jumped away from Draco, his wand already out. "Go find your mother." With that, Lucius was out the door, ready to fight whomever thought it was a good idea to invade Malfoy Manor—his father had always been short and to the point. 'Find Mother' meant to find her, get to the secret passageway, get out of the house, and hunker down for a few days—or at least until Lucius contacted them. Draco quickly left the room and ran off into the house, looking for Narcissa. She had been in the drawing room last he checked. He ran in that direction, his pain momentarily forgotten in the rush of the moment.

As he ran, Draco thought—who could this be, and for what reason? Neither question was very hard to guess at. Aurors, most likely, were here to apprehend his father and mother and any incriminating evidence so that Lucius would be locked up in Azkaban forever. Draco cursed his luck and ran faster—his mother was no match for a couple Aurors; she was too delicate.

Draco rounded the corner to the Drawing room and saw two men burst through the doors to his mother. Two quick hexes were fired off in succession, and Draco could hear his mother screaming—he was too late, obviously. It would be better if he got out of the house himself, now, instead of being captured as well. Slytherins were smart enough (unlike Gryffindors) to retreat and devise a plan, instead of rushing into things head first, consequences be damned.

Draco turned to leave and suddenly bumped into a wall—a very tall wall that resembled a person. A redheaded man, actually, that resembled a certain Weasel he knew—but that meant, Draco realized, that these couldn't be Aurors. As far as Draco knew, none of the Weasleys were Aurors, though he was pretty sure the one that followed Potter around wanted to be one. But this wasn't that particular Weasel, and Draco knew it. No—this was someone else. It had to be. This entire thing didn't make sense if it wasn't Aurors—why else would someone break into Malfoy Manor and attack his family? These people would have to be idiots, and though Draco didn't rule that possibility out, he knew that even Crabbe and Goyle, the two biggest idiots of the world, would think twice about breaking into his house.

His musings would have to be saved for another day, though. The Auror—Weasley?—quickly cast a stunning spell, and due to Draco's multiple bruises and injuries, it was just enough to render him unconscious.

**xxx**

When Draco woke up, his head hurt. Actually, his entire body hurt. This was not turning out to be a great summer, as he had hoped. He was supposed to leave for Blaise's the next day—today?—and it seemed he would have to cancel. Bummer.

Before opening his eyes, Draco evaluated his situation. He was hurt, obviously—the pain was radiating off every part of his body. He was laying down on his back in an almost-comfortable bed. It smelled very clean around him—a hospital of some sort, maybe. He could hear voices, but they were too far away or too quiet for him to hear anything of importance.

Draco opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. Definitely a hospital of some sort, though he didn't know well. Vials of healing potions of every sort lined the wall opposite him. Sunlight filtered through a window—it was late in the morning, Draco guessed. Everything around him was white. Draco tried to move his head to gather a clearer picture of his room, but it hurt too much. He settled for closing his eyes again and listening to the voices, which were getting louder every minute. They sounded familiar, but his brain was slightly muddled and he couldn't yet place who they were.

"You mean to tell me he can't stay here? Why not? He is without a home, currently, and without a safe place to go. I will take full responsibility for him—he will not be in anyone's way." The voice was angry and harsh, but it sounded very familiar. It was obviously talking about him—what did it mean about not having a home or a safe place to go? What about his parents, or even Zambini? What had happened? Draco thought hard, trying to remember how he had gotten himself in this predicament.

Oh yes. Suddenly it all came flooding back to him. He had been with his father and someone had set off the wards. Not the Aurors, though—one of the Weasleys had been there, so it had to be someone else. But he had no idea who. Better listen to the conversation some more—maybe he could learn something else.

The conversation hadn't gotten very far, obviously. It was another person speaking this time—he sounded old, and familiar. Dumbledore, maybe? No, it couldn't be—why would he be at Hogwarts? "You know very well that we cannot have a student here over the summer. I will not make exceptions for anyone."

"What about for your Golden Boy?"

"Not even for him. The Wards are being reset, and we cannot have students running around the campus. If I offer protection to him, I must offer it to everyone—and we cannot do that."

"Then where will he go, Albus?" Yup, definitely Dumbledore. And the other person sounded like Severus, Draco realized. Well, Severus made sense, at least. Severus had always been nearby when Draco needed it, and from what he could gather, he needed it now. Dumbledore was still a mystery, though. With Severus here, Dumbledore was even less likely—why would Severus be arguing with Dumbledore about where Draco would be staying for the rest of the summer?

"I think he should go to Headquarters. He will be safe there, and he will be out of the way."

There was silence. Draco momentarily wondered where Headquarters were, and (more importantly) what they were headquarters for, exactly. But those questions were forgotten as he continued to listen to the conversation.

"You do not seriously expect him to spend the summer there? The house is a wreck, first of all. And I highly doubt he would enjoy the company, or even be welcomed. That is the worst idea I have heard you come up with in a long while, Albus."

"You said it yourself—he has no where to go right now. He cannot stay here over the summer, obviously; that would be inconvenient. And I am sure that, after the initial shock, Mr. Malfoy will be welcomed and happy there. Anyways, the last time I visited, our young tenet had thoroughly cleaned and fixed up the place. It is very livable. I think Mr. Malfoy's company will be very appreciated there, too. I am beginning to worry for our dear boy—he did not look well the last I visited, and I do believe he needs something to distract himself."

Malfoy briefly wondered whom they were talking about—someone else, obviously, and from what he could gather, it was a person he didn't like much. But it couldn't be—?

"Fine, Albus. We will send him there. Lord knows we can't stop you when you get one of your crazy ideas into your head. But do not come to me when your plans blow up in your face, as they inevitably will. You have far too much optimism if you think they will be able to get along well enough not to murder each other."

"I do believe Mr. Malfoy is awake, if you would like to inform him already." Draco rolled his eyes—did that old coot know everything? He would have pretended to still be sleeping if Severus hadn't already pulled back the curtains.

"Draco. It's good to see you doing better." Severus didn't look so happy—actually, he looked positively infuriated. Draco had a bad feeling about all of this. Draco waited patiently for Severus to explain. "How much did you hear?" Ever the practical one.

"Something about me going to stay at some Headquarters or other with someone I won't like." Draco pushed himself into a sitting position despite the pain and stared at Severus.

Severus nodded. "Yes. Your house is currently…unavailable. Lucius and Narcissa have been apprehended and turned over to the Ministry for questioning, and will most likely end up in Azkaban. The Ministry is currently searching your house. You were brought here. Most of your relatives, as you know, are unsuitable for taking you in for the summer." In other words, most were dangerous Death Eaters and Severus was worried for Draco's health. "Your friends are unavailable, too."

Draco waited, thinking about everything Severus had said. "Before you continue, will you answer me a few questions?" Severus nodded and waited for Draco to continue.

Draco decided on a simple, easy question first. "How long was I out?" Draco ran his fingers lightly over his arms, tracing the almost-invisible scars that covered his skin. Luckily, Draco's arms were nearly covered by the blanket on the bed, or Severus would have raised some kind of outcry that Draco had begun again. But it was so hard not to… Draco mentally shook himself and returned his attention to Severus, who was giving him an answer.

"Two days," answered Severus.

Draco nodded. That felt about right—but it meant he had already missed Zambini, and that was slightly disappointing. Now for the tougher questions—the ones he didn't think would be answered. "You said my parents were turned over to the Ministry—not that the Aurors had taken them in. That implies an outside force. I'm sure I saw one of the Weasleys at the house, too, and none of them are Aurors as far as I know. So who apprehended my parents, and who brought me here?"

Severus sighed. He knew Draco was too smart for his own good. "You are right; it was not the Aurors who attacked your house. But you do not need to know who, exactly, it was. Do not worry yourself with those questions for now."

"In other words, I'm either too young to know, or too much of a liability to know. Alright, so where are these Headquarters, and what are they for?"

"Again, you do not need to know. You'll find out, I'm sure, but I cannot be the one to tell you. The Headquarters' location is kept secret, and what they are Headquarters for relates to your previous question. I apologize; I am sure Dumbledore will inform you of those details you need to know when he sees fit, but I am unable to tell you more than I already am."

Draco nodded; he hadn't really thought Severus would be able to answer either of the last questions, so he wasn't too disappointed. He didn't like not knowing, but he respected that Severus could not tell him. Still, he was frustrated—why would they not tell him? That old man was going to get it one day, and Draco would laugh.

"Fine. Continue, then."

"I tried to get you placed under my care, as you might have heard. The Headmaster would not hear of it, though." Draco rolled his eyes. "Therefore, you will be placed in the Headquarters. It is safe—very few know of its location, and there are strong wards protecting it. There is one problem, however…"

Draco braced himself. Still, however bad he thought it could be, he did not expect what Severus said next.

"You will be staying with Mr. Potter."

Draco stared at Severus for a moment. Then he closed his eyes breathed in and out deeply once, and opened them again. "What?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"You very well heard me, Draco, and you know it. You'll be staying with Mr. Potter. Your sworn enemy. Arch-nemesis. Boy-Who-Lived. Dumbledore's Golden-Boy. Need I go on? Headquarters is actually Potter's house. It was Black's house before, but Black died and left the house to Potter."

Draco was overwhelmed with information, so he grabbed on to the most concrete thing he could and least significant thing he could. "Black? As in the murderer? The convict? How are he and Potter related? I knew there was something dangerous about Potter—look at who he has for relatives and friends! A werewolf, a bunch of muggles and mudbloods, the Weasleys, and now a convict. Wonderful."

"Actually, Black's supposedly innocent—though I think they should lock him up none-the-less. But I am not the one to explain that to you…others would say my views would be…tainted."

Draco thought for a moment, trying to sort out his feelings and regain control of his mind. "Let me get this straight. I am going to be spending the rest of my summer with Harry-Bloody-Potter? You have to be kidding."

"I do not like it, either. I will make sure to visit you often, and in the meanwhile, I will search for another place for you to stay. Do not worry; I will have you out of there as soon as I can manage."

"Don't worry? You do realize that's next to impossible, right?"

Severus closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I am sorry, Draco. There is nothing we can do about it. I must go now. I will be back in two hours to collect you; be ready to go then. I took the liberty to retrieve some of your belongings from the Manor; your bag is over there. Let me know, and I will get anything else you request."

Draco sat on the bed, dumbfounded. He was going to spend the summer at his arch-nemesis's house, the former house of a wanted man who is both dead and apparently innocent—and of what relation to Harry, if he left his house to the boy? And there was no way to get around this. How could things possibly get worse?

**xxx**

A/N: Let me know what you think. It really only takes seconds to leave a review, you know. Toodles. Johnny will love you for all eternity if he gets a review, too.


	2. Eat a Live Chicken

A/N: Here's a quick answer to someone who asked me a question: I will not send out personal notifications that I have updated, no. That takes far too much time. But I do have pro-services, so if you put me on your author-alert or story-alert list, you will get reminders every time I update my story. Thanks! 

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter Two: Eat a Live Chicken**

**xxx **

Harry was making lunch to distract himself from his damning thoughts. He had taken to making all his meals—partially to distract himself, and partially because Mrs. Weasley always complained that he must not be getting enough nourishment. "You're so skinny, Harry! You should come over to our house more often and have some real meals!" If only he could, thought Harry. The distraction, the company, and the food would have been wonderful—but he was not allowed to leave the house under any circumstances. Mrs. Weasley came to cook for him every Sunday dinner, and she always brought the entire family for company, along with Remus and usually Hermione; Harry always looked forward to Sundays. But today was Tuesday, and Sunday seemed a long way off.

Harry had to thank the Dursleys for at least one thing—they had taught him how to cook decently enough that he could make it on his own. Aunt Petunia had never let him cook the big or fancy meals, but he knew how to make most simple and common things, and he could follow the directions in a cookbook well enough. Mrs. Weasley was kind enough to supply all the ingredients he needed for cooking; all he had to do was give her a list, and she'd bring back the food. Right now he was making himself a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup.

Harry wasn't terribly surprised when he heard someone enter through the floo. Actually, he was expecting it—Dumbledore came every Tuesday to check up on him, usually around this time. Harry flicked his wand towards the cabinet, and the table set itself for two people (Dumbledore had gotten special permission for Harry to use underage magic when at Grimmauld Place, and Harry was grateful for it; some things were just easier with a wand). Harry quickly started another sandwich.

"Hello, Harry," said Professor Dumbledore. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine, thank you." It didn't hurt to lie once in a while. He was far from fine, actually. He was bored, and the guilt and grief of Sirius's death was almost unbearable. But the Headmaster didn't need to know that. "How are you today, Headmaster?"

"Doing well, actually." There was a sad twinkle in his eyes, though, and Harry knew Dumbledore had seen through his lie. Better to distract the old man now, while it was still possible.

"I'm making a Grilled Cheese for you, sir. I hope you like them on the dark side."

"That will be fine, thank you. I have some news to discuss with you while you cook, if that's alright." Harry nodded and waited for the Headmaster to continue. He always had news, Harry noticed, though it usually wasn't important, and it almost never concerned him. Harry listened with only half an ear, keeping his mind on the cooking.

"The other day the Order took a group to apprehend Lucius. He has become more active lately, and we have been informed that he is becoming more dangerous and much bolder." In other words, Severus had been a good little spy. Harry had heard about the mission; no matter how hard they tried to exclude him from the meetings, little bits of information always leaked out. "The mission went well, and both Lucius and Narcissa were captured and taken to the ministry, with relatively little harm." Did Dumbledore think he was making Harry felt more included and more of a part of the battle by telling him these things? Because frankly, Harry didn't care. The Malfoys were not his major concern.

"Well, as with many plans, we came across a couple…problems." Harry tensed. "It turns out that young Malfoy was staying with his parents; we had planned on him being with Mr. Blaise Zambini, but it seems that the trip had been postponed a few days. We had to take Mr. Malfoy with us, for obvious reasons; it seems he had suffered a few injuries, though not from the battle. Charlie said that he merely hit Mr. Malfoy with a stunner that should have momentarily disoriented him, but Mr. Malfoy passed out instead. After an examination, we found he has sustained many injuries over the past month, and most recently last night. We are not sure how Mr. Malfoy has been hurt, but we realize it is not safe to send him back to his house without further knowledge of the situation. We cannot send him to family, either, for fear of his further endangerment. Many of his close relatives are followers of the Dark Lord, and we do not wish to put him in that kind of a situation if we can help it." Harry knew Dumbledore was holding information back, but it didn't really matter.

Harry could see where this was leading, but he really didn't want to think about it. "We needed a safe, secret place to put him, Harry. I am sorry that you do not get along very well, but he has nowhere else to go. You must understand what kind of a predicament he is in—he has no family to speak of right now, as both his parents are soon to be locked in Azkaban. His assets have been frozen, as ordered by the Ministry. They are afraid of the Malfoys—even young Draco—and they do not know where Mr. Malfoy is, as we did not hand him over as well. He is in need of our help, even if he is unwilling to admit it."

Harry was flabbergasted. Luckily, he had already pulled the sandwiches off the grill, or they would have burned. He set one sandwich in front of the Headmaster and took the other for himself, but he didn't eat. After a while, he spoke. "You are putting me and Malfoy in the same house, without supervision. And you think either of us is safe? You have to be kidding."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and Harry wanted to slap the smile right off his face. "I am sure you will get along splendidly once you get past your initial differences, Harry. You might find you have more in common with him than you think."

Harry put his head down on the table. Damn that knowing twinkle. He didn't want to believe Dumbledore. He wanted to go upstairs, crawl into his bead, and go to sleep. When he woke up, this would all be some strange, horrible nightmare. Even being alone in this house was better than being with Malfoy.

"I think you should put him up in the Green room. He will be most comfortable there. Severus said one o'clock, so you have half an hour before they arrive." Dumbledore waved his wand at the plate, which immediately cleaned itself and flew back into the cupboard. "I advise finishing your sandwich and getting the house ready for Draco." In the background, Mrs. Black suddenly started screaming, though Harry couldn't tell for what reason. He agreed perfectly, though—if it wouldn't make him look like a raving lunatic, he would start screaming with her. "Maybe Draco can help you get that painting of Mrs. Black down—I know you've wanted it gone for a long while now." Yeah, as if Malfoy would help him with anything. Anyways, she hadn't been screaming half as much lately as she used to, she was much quieter about it, and it was much more tolerable than before. He wasn't going to attempt to enlist Malfoy's help to do something that didn't really bother him

Dumbledore left, and Harry found he wanted to cry. This was going to be a worse summer than he had thought. Harry threw away the untouched sandwich, cleaned and put away the plate, and walked up to his room. He collapsed on the bed, unable to think. Not only would he be trapped here now, forced to think all the time of his guilt, but he would have his least-favorite person (other than Voldemort, of course, but Harry wasn't sure if the slimy bastard counted as a person) as company.

After a while—he didn't know how long—Harry could hear movement downstairs. He assumed they had arrived, but he didn't want to go down to see them. He could hear Malfoy's voice drift up from the living room.

"_This_ is where Potter lives? It's a dump! Look at this place—not a single thing matches, first of all." Harry rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he could go out and buy matching furniture. He wasn't allowed to leave, after all. Harry pushed himself out of bed and walked downstairs, dreading every minute of it.

Malfoy was looking around the living room, his arms crossed in front of him, sneering at everything in sight. He looked just as haughty as always. Snape looked as disgusted and snobbish as always; it looked as if Snape was afraid to touch anything for fear of being swallowed alive. He was currently looking at the coffee table apprehensively; he sneered at it, as if to say 'I dare you to swallow me whole.'

"What took you so long?" asked Snape acerbically.

"I'm sorry. I was busy," Harry responded tersely. "Is there anything I can get you two?" He may as well play the polite host—even if it was Malfoy.

"Water, please," said Snape. Harry turned expectantly towards Malfoy, but the boy wasn't paying attention, and Harry found he really didn't care to ask again. He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then returned and offered it to Snape, who just looked at the glass as if it would poison him.

"I expect there to be no fighting, Mr. Potter. Do not torture Mr. Malfoy just because you do not like him." Harry noticed that he said nothing of the sort to Malfoy, who was staring at the couch with extreme disgust.

"Where will I be staying, Potter? I want to put my things down."

Harry sighed and wondered how long Malfoy would be staying here. He was sure he would hex Malfoy if that damn boy kept talking down to him the way he was. He was so damn haughty and condescending, and it grated on his nerves. "The Green Room," he said simply.

"And where might that be? You really don't expect me to know off the top of my head, do you? You're a bad host."

Harry rolled his eyes—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. "Follow me, Malfoy." He turned and led Malfoy up the stairs, not looking back to make sure the boy was following.

While cleaning, Harry had found that most of the rooms had a color theme. Harry slept in the Red Room (well, more like Maroon, but he didn't care about specifics), which was across the hall and two doors down from the Green Room. The other bedrooms weren't as clean, though. Harry put his guests up in the Green Room, so he cleaned it weekly, just in case someone stopped by. The Red Room had been Sirius's, which was why Harry stayed there. He liked the idea of being close to Sirius when sleeping. He didn't know much about the Green Room, but it was the largest aside from his.

Harry pushed the door open and let Malfoy in. He felt as if Malfoy was invading his privacy, but there was nothing he could do about it. Harry stared dejectedly as Malfoy looked around the room, unable to summon his anger at Malfoy's invasion.

"I can't believe you live like this—it's disgusting." Harry shrugged, not caring to respond. He didn't see what was wrong with the room. It was large, that was for sure. There was a small bathroom that connected to the room, and a large four-poster bed in the middle. There was a sizable dresser, as well as a closet. Harry thought it was quite comfortable, really. Everything was a deep green or brown, and the only other color was the white trim. It was very Slytherin-esque, Harry though; all the same colors, except for the brown. Well, white wasn't exactly silver, either, but who was complaining?

"Glad you like it. Dinner's at six. Unless you want to make something else, we're having chicken. Feel free to explore." Harry's voice was devoid of emotion, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't summon the energy to actually seem angry, or happy, or sad. He just wanted to go to bed. First Sirius's death, and now this. Granted, Sirius dying was considerably worse, but this just made Harry want to cry even more.

Harry reluctantly said goodbye to Snape and went back to his room. He had at least four hours before he needed to start making the food, so he was going to take a nap. There wasn't much else for him to do, anyways.

**xxx**

Draco sat gingerly on the bed, hoping that it wouldn't collapse beneath him. It didn't look unstable, but you could never know with Potter. He took another look around the room. It wasn't half as big as his room at home, and the colors clashed slightly—who _ever_ thought of putting that brown wardrobe in this room? It should be black. And white trim? Well, that should be black, too. Or silver, maybe. But it wasn't half bad, Draco realized. It was comfortable, and it was secluded. It had a lock, and a small bathroom (though it would have been much nicer if the bathroom had been at least a normal size—say, large tub, shower, two sinks and a toilet, maybe a closet). But it was okay, though he wouldn't tell Potter that. And best of all—there was no Lucius. That meant no beatings, no 'talks,' no Death Eaters, and no Dark Lord.

The only truly bad thing about this house was that he shared it with Potter.

Draco decided to explore, since he had nothing better to do. He looked down the hallway. There were a few pictures hanging on the walls, which Draco took a moment to look at. All Potter's friends and family, of course. Those two must be his parents—and it was very apparent who had given his horrible hair and bad taste in clothes. That was Professor Lupin, Draco noted. Hadn't he and Potter been close a couple years ago? Draco shrugged.

There was Weasel and that Mudblood, with Potter standing between them. All were smiling and waving at the camera. Draco sneered at the picture and moved down. There was a picture of Potter and Black, that supposedly-innocent convict. A couple more pictures of Weasel and Granger, one more of his parents and what seemed to be a young version of Black and Lupin and some other guy he couldn't recognize, and that was it. Was this the entirety of Potter's family? Draco's walls were lined with rows and rows of pictures of family, half of whom he didn't even know. Draco shrugged; it wasn't his business, and he sure as hell didn't care.

At the end of the hallway, right next to Draco's door, was a staircase. He walked up and found the attic, which was full of clutter and useless artifacts. It was all organized, though; it seemed someone had come up here and sorted through everything. At the far end there was a small window, and a little space cleared. There was a beaten-up couch and a small table underneath the window. Draco shrugged and turned around; he would explore up here later. For now, the small layer of dust that had accumulated since this place had last been cleaned was making him sneeze.

When Draco returned, he entered the first door he came to, which was opposite his own. A bedroom—purple seemed to be the theme. It was much smaller than his own room, as well. It seemed Potter had given him a sizeable room—how kind. Potter was far too polite for his own good. Draco moved to the door right next to his, which held a blue bedroom. Then there was a linen closet.

Draco opened the door opposite the linen closet. He entered a maroon bedroom this time—were all these rooms color-coded or something? It was only slightly larger than his own, and it seemed to have a bigger bathroom off the side of it. And on the bed was Potter. It seemed the boy was asleep. Draco thought about disturbing him, but then thought differently—he really didn't want a conversation-argument-thing right now, let alone with Potter. Anyways, he didn't want Potter to know he was snooping around the house, even if he had been given permission.

Draco moved on. He found a beautiful bathroom next to Potter's room. It was all white, and very spacey. Draco knew where he was taking a bath tonight, that was for sure. There was a large tub in the center of the floor, and multiple different faucets. Across from the bathroom was the drawing room; very comfortable, and lots of books.

Downstairs, Draco two more bedrooms, the kitchen, a smaller bathroom, the living room, and a couple more closets. There were definitely enough rooms in this house, Draco thought. Maybe even enough for the Weasley family, with room to spare. No, never mind. Nothing could be big enough for that family.

Draco moved to a chair in the living room—it looked cleaner than most, and Draco hoped it wouldn't attack him. You never knew what to find in wizarding homes. Some things were quite dangerous. He had once gone to his grandmother's house and been attacked by a very safe-looking tea set; needless to say, he had never trusted something so 'safe'-looking again. Damn tea set had given him nightmares for a week, at least.

Draco sank comfortably into the chair; it practically swallowed him, but in a good way. It was very soft, and almost deceptively comfortable. He never would have guessed how comfortable this chair was just from looking at it. Draco looked around the living room—it seemed to be the only room in the house without a color theme—with mild distaste. Potter could have at least gotten rid of that horrid rug, or maybe that table, or possibly that clock, or…

Draco drifted to sleep with thoughts as to how he would redo this room and get rid of all the tacky furniture. Hey—who could blame him? He had had a long, trying day. He woke up, found out all this horrible news, put in this horrible place with Potter, and all after being injured. He was tired, and this chair was comfortable.

**xxx**

Harry woke up at quarter to four and decided he should get up. He needed to take a quick shower before cooking dinner, and he should probably change his clothes, which were a bit rumpled from sleeping. He decided against using the big bathroom—he tended to stay too long in there. He had often fallen asleep in the tub, and he knew that if he went in there now, he wouldn't come out for hours.

Harry's shower was fast, and soon he was dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Harry walked down the stairs, wondering what Malfoy was up to. Was he still in his room, or had he moved to other parts of the house? And why did he care? Harry assumed the answer to that was that he didn't usually have company, especially not company he disliked.

Harry's question was soon answered. As he passed through the living room to get to the kitchen, he saw Malfoy curled up in an armchair. Harry smirked—boy, wouldn't it be wonderful if he had some paint or something? Maybe a little whipped cream, or something else to prank the Slytherin with. Where were the twins when you needed them? But Snape had said to behave nicely, and he knew Dumbledore expected it. Anyways, he didn't have anything handy.

Harry continued to the kitchen. He had pulled out the chicken to defrost earlier. He turned on the stove, letting it warm up. Then he washed his hands, got out his cooking utensils, and began cooking.

Don't get him wrong. He wasn't cooking a nice meal just for Malfoy. Tuesdays were always chicken nights, though the chicken was prepared differently every week. Wednesdays were pasta nights, Thursdays were varied, and so on. He liked having a routine, even if it was this simple. Anyways, tonight was nothing fancy. Corn and peas would be the side dishes, and there would be rolls. Some nights, though, he would pull out the cookbook and make something fancy—this was nothing. He had made it for the Dursleys all the time. Tonight, he wanted comfort food, not gourmet.

Harry had lost himself in the cooking when Draco came in and sat at the table, staring at him. Harry didn't even notice. He was too absorbed in moving around the kitchen, checking on this and that. Draco finally cleared his throat, and Harry whipped around, surprised.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"Sitting, obviously. I'm staying here, too, you know. Unwillingly, but none-the-less. How much longer until you finish dinner?"

Harry looked at the clock on the wall, then back at the food he was preparing. "Half an hour. Table will be set soon after. Why?"

"None of your business, Potter."

Draco turned and walked back up to his room. That had almost been a civil conversation, and Draco didn't like it. Potter was too…Gryffindor to have a civil conversation with, if that were possible. Draco went to his room and gathered his toiletries, then went to the big bathroom. He wanted to relax.

**xxx**

Half an hour later, Malfoy came down, freshly bathed. His hair was perfectly groomed, and his clothes were clean and pressed. Harry was sickened—how could someone be that vain? Though he had to admit, he would love to know how Malfoy tamed his hair.

Harry had just finished setting the table. "Dinner's ready, Malfoy." Man, this getting-along thing was going pretty well so far—no major fights, no sarcasm (well, very little sarcasm), and general…niceness.

Ah, but he should have known it was too good to be true. Malfoy looked at the food and sneered. "What is this? Even my house elves could do better, and that's saying something."

"It's food, Malfoy. Chicken. Now eat."

"You actually took time to make this? It looks…dead."

"That's because it _is_ dead, Malfoy. Unless you want to eat a live chicken, I suggest you eat the dead ones I cook."

Malfoy sneered. "You cook? I wouldn't know from this meal, that's for sure. Couldn't you fix something…better?"

Harry was starting to get angry. "Malfoy, I don't have time for this. Either eat it, or don't. If you don't like what I cook, you can make your own meal. But next time, let me know ahead of time. I don't like cooking food no one will eat."

"I didn't ask for you to cook for me, you know. You just _assumed_ I would want something to eat. In the future, I will let you know when I want to eat, and what I want to eat."

"I'm not your slave, Malfoy. If you want to eat, let me know, but I'm not cooking something different just for you. If you want something specific, you can ask nicely or cook it yourself."

"Like I'd want you cooking my food, Potter. You'd probably poison me by accident—you don't have enough guts to do it on purpose, and you're just stupid enough to make a mistake."

Draco turned and stormed out of the room. He hadn't had breakfast or lunch though, and he was hungry, but he didn't care any more. He just wanted away from Potter. He didn't know why he was in such a bad mood—probably a combination of realizing he was going to have to spend an indefinite amount of time here with Potter and being sore from all his injuries. Pomfrey had done a fair job of healing him, but it didn't take away the soreness.

Draco sat on his bed once again, at a loss as to what to do. Finally he decided to unpack; he would be here a while, and Malfoys did not disgrace themselves by living out of their suitcases.

Severus was smart, but he obviously didn't think much. He had packed the bare necessities—toiletries (and not even the good ones), underwear (sixteen pairs?), a couple changes of clothes, his schoolbooks, and his broom. He would have to ask Severus if he could go to his house and retrieve all the things he needed—he certainly wouldn't go more than a week without his lavender shampoo, and he really wanted his silk pajamas.

Draco lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a spot a little to the left of his head. That spot was going to bother him, he just knew it. He'd get Potter to clean it sometime. For now, sleep.

**xxx**

Harry sighed in frustration as he cleaned up the kitchen. He really, really hated making food no one would eat. What he wouldn't give to teach Malfoy a lesson right now—Merlin.

When he was finished with the kitchen, Harry went to the living room and curled up in one of the armchairs—not the one Malfoy had been in, though. He didn't want to be reminded of that damned Slytherin at the moment. Harry ran his fingers through his hair angrily. He didn't know why he was so angry right now—he just was. Maybe it was because he had to throw away perfectly good food. Maybe it was because Malfoy was staying here, and he didn't know when the damn boy was leaving. Maybe it was because he didn't want to feel guilty right now. Or maybe it was all three. Whatever it was that made Harry angry, he wished it would go away.

Harry fell asleep on the armchair, his face still contorted in frustration. He didn't sleep very well that night.

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny says you should all you're your gratitude for getting another chapter by reviewing. Toodles!


	3. Goldfish Granger

**Semi-Important Note:** Yeah, so I'm a camp consellor right now. That means fewer updates, and much further inbetween. I'll try to get stuff to you regularly, but there will be a period of time (next week) where there won't even be the possibility of an update. So sorry. But hey--at least you get this now! And I'll try to update soon for all of you. **Thanks for all of your reviews!**

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter Three: Goldfish Granger**

**xxx**

Draco woke up some time in the middle of the night to his stomach growling. It seemed he would not be able to make it until the morning to eat. Draco eased himself out of bed and walked quietly to the door. He had perfected the art of walking silently years ago—he could move on gravel without making a noise if he wanted. It was a skill, and he loved using it. It had become second nature to walk quietly—he did it without even thinking now. Granted, few people noticed or cared; he was almost always with a group, and people rarely paid attention to how quietly a single person walks in a crowd. But it still gave him pride.

Draco opened the door—no creaks, which was good. It seemed Potter kept his house in order (for the most part). Draco never would have guessed. Draco slinked down the hallway, taking special care not to make a sound, since this was a new house and all. He came to the stairway, and walked slowly down, keeping to the side of the stairs, where it was less likely to make a noise.

Draco reached the bottom of the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief—so good, so far. No one would ever know he was out of bed. He didn't know why he wanted to be so secretive—he just didn't want Potter to know he was up and hungry, having passed up that meal he had been offered earlier.

Draco came to the living room and froze—it seemed that Potter had not made it to his bed that night. He was curled up on one of the armchairs, and looked slightly uncomfortable for it. How on earth could someone sleep like that? Then again, he had done so earlier, too. But he had been much more graceful and much more comfortable, too. Potter was going to have a sore neck tomorrow, that was for sure. Draco smirked. Served him right.

Draco easily made it to the kitchen without waking Potter up. He then opened the contraption he had seen Potter open earlier—he had seen one before, somewhere. It kept things cold—muggle contraptions. All he needed was a cooling spell, and it had the same effect with less trouble. Draco briefly wondered what a muggle contraption was doing in a wizarding house, but waved it off as an unimportant question—it's not like it mattered. It could be from Tralfamadore for all he cared.

Draco pulled out a glass of milk and an apple. He had never eaten very much, and now was not the time to start. He ate, at most, two meals a day—and rarely that. Other people didn't notice, though—he made sure of it. He always _seemed_ to eat three full meals a day. He would pile things on his plate, but throw them away or transfigure them into something else or, if worse came to worse, throw up the food later. A muggle-born had once put a name to it, but he hadn't really paid attention much (it was a muggle-thing, after all). Anyways, Draco had to keep his trim figure somehow, didn't he? It helped that he was never that hungry, though that might be because he had trained himself to eat less than the average person.

Draco ate his dinner in the dark, not wanting to wake Potter up by turning on the light. It wouldn't do for Potter to see him eating a midnight snack; it was early, and Draco didn't want that fight. Better to be a sneaky Slytherin than a brash Gryffindor.

Draco finished his meal and sneaked back upstairs, throwing one last glance at Potter. He had moved slightly so that his head was slightly more comfortable, but it still didn't look all that pleasant. Draco smirked. Potter wouldn't be in a very good mood tomorrow morning, most likely.

**xxx**

Harry groaned. Why in Merlin's name had he allowed himself to fall asleep on that armchair last night? Harry rubbed the knot in his neck as he continued to make breakfast. Malfoy was probably still fast asleep in bed, but it didn't really matter to Harry. Malfoy could fix his own breakfast, for all he cared.

Harry pulled out a plate and piled the eggs and bacon he had made onto it. Despite his uncaring attitude, he had still made enough for two. Harry sighed as he realized this. Just then, Malfoy walked in, looking as groomed as ever—even this early in the morning. Harry glanced at the clock. Okay, so it was ten—Malfoy was allowed to be groomed. Even Harry had been up since nine, and Malfoy had probably taken his time getting ready this morning. Not that it mattered.

"Breakfast?" He may as well be polite, and the extra eggs and bacon weren't going to eat themselves. Malfoy stared suspiciously at the food. "It's not poisoned, you know." Harry took a bite of bacon. "See?" he asked after he had swallowed. "Perfectly safe, and perfectly good."

Malfoy sneered, but he agreed. He really didn't want to make his own breakfast right now—he was not a morning person, and making breakfast in his befuddled state in a semi-Muggle kitchen was just asking for trouble.

Harry retrieved another plate and set it in front of Malfoy. "Drink?" Malfoy murmured something incoherent. "I'm sorry Malfoy. Didn't catch that. A little tired, are we?"

Malfoy sneered. "Fuck off, Potter."

"Not a morning person, I see. Get your drink yourself if you're not going to be civilized about it."

Breakfast was eaten in tense silence. Harry brightened as he remembered that Hermione would be stopping by today to drop off more books, pick up the old ones, and visit a little. He hoped Malfoy would stay out of the way, if only for a little while.

Harry stood up, cleaned his plate, and put it away. He was refraining from doing magic for now—he wanted to make Malfoy as uncomfortable as possible without becoming mean…and hey, this wasn't torturing, was it? He was just…withholding information that could make Malfoy's life easier. Or it could give Malfoy a chance to hex him. Either way, Harry was going to do as much as he could without magic, for at least a little while.

Before walking out of the room, Harry said "Just to let you know, Hermione's going to visit today. She's bringing me some more books."

"And why do I care, Potter? Do you feel it necessary to inform me of everything you do?" Draco sneered.

"I was just being polite, Malfoy. Get over yourself." Harry sighed and walked out of the room. If Draco was like this all summer, Harry was pretty sure he'd go insane.

**xxx**

Hermione arrived at three, sharp, through the fireplace. Very few fires were connected to Grimmauld Place—Hermione, the Weasleys, and Hogwarts all had a connection, as well as a few, select Order Members. Not many people knew of Grimmauld Place, anyway, so no one every strayed to the house without permission. Still, it gave Harry comfort that he could almost predict who was coming through the fireplace at any given time.

Harry rushed down the stairs the moment he heard the soft 'pop' that signaled an arrival through the floo network. "'Mione!" he exclaimed, wrapping her up in a hug. Malfoy was no where to be seen, he noted, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"How are you, Harry?" she said, smiling.

Harry rolled his eyes in frustration. "You wouldn't believe what's happened to me the past couple days. Come on up to my room, and let's talk."

Hermione looked at Harry in confusion. They didn't usually go to his room; they just stayed in the living room and chatted comfortably. This must be important. She followed him up expectantly, toting the books she brought with her.

On the way up, they met Draco. He was just coming down, it seemed. Hermione's eyes widened. "Harry," she said. "What—?"

"Oh shut up, Granger. You look like a goldfish." Draco sneered and shoved past her, continuing on his way to the kitchen.

Hermione looked at Harry, her eyes questioning. Harry shrugged. "Like I said, we need to talk."

Harry got to his room and shut the door behind them. "Merlin, thanks for coming. It's been horrible."

"Harry, what happened? Why is Malfoy here?" she asked, sitting gingerly on his bed. She didn't want to fall over when Harry told her what happened; she assumed sitting was a much better position to be in right now.

"I'm not sure, exactly, what happened. In short, Malfoy's in some kind of danger, and Dumbledore dropped him off here for Merlin knows how long. He said he'd try to find another place for Malfoy to stay, but I doubt that will actually happen. So he's here, and I'm here, and it's torture.

Hermione nodded. "I can see that. How long has he been here?"

"Since yesterday. Snape dropped him off around one. I haven't seen much of him, actually, which is nice. I put him in the Green Room when he got here. Then he came down at dinner and complained about my food and stormed off. Then there was breakfast…and just then on the hallway."

"I am so sorry Harry. But you know, it could be a good thing."

Harry stared at Hermione incredulously. "Good? How?"

"Well, you were complaining about always being bored and having too much time to think. Maybe Malfoy will be able to distract you somehow."

"How? By hexing me to next Tuesday? Or maybe by arguing with me about every little thing? Sure, 'Mione. He'll keep me real busy—by making my life more miserable than it already is."

"Harold James Potter. Your life is _not_ miserable. You have friends, family—don't say you don't, because you know the Weasleys are more than willing to be your family—a life, a beautiful home, and you will always have Ron and me."

"Yes, and I have the world's evilest wizard out to kill me, and my godfather was killed because of my stupid actions." This was an ongoing argument, and Harry hated it.

Hermione huffed. "You did not kill Sirius, Harry. Let's not have this argument right now. Here are the books I brought you. Now—on to a lighter subject."

Harry knew what that meant—she was going to squeal about Ron. Yup, there she went. Harry listened with half an ear, knowing that ninety percent of the conversation was worthless. Instead, Harry brooded. What did she know? She'd always had both parents, and the love they gave her. Harry had only had Sirius—and now, as a result of his actions, Sirius was dead.

"What do you think, Harry?"

"Huh?" Crap. Every once in a while, she caught him off guard. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

Hermione sighed. "I said, what do you think I should get Ron for his birthday?"

"Something Quidditch. And no books! Anyways, I think you've given both of us all the books on Quidditch there are over the years—really, 'Mione. Can't you be…more creative?"

Hermione giggled. "I can't help it if I see a book I know another person might enjoy—or at least find useful."

Harry shrugged. "It's not important. Hey, will you make sure Ron knows that Draco's staying here? I don't want it to be a big surprise Sunday. You're coming, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it, Harry. I never do. Is Remus?"

"I think so. He'll be a little weak, I think—Friday's the full moon, you know—but he said he'd try to make it. I know he likes spending the evening here—it pulls him out of the dumps." Remus, like Harry, was mourning the death of Sirius. Harry wasn't sure why it hit Remus so hard—almost harder than Harry—but he assumed it was because he had just gotten Sirius back.

"Mrs. Weasley's really excited—she always loves these dinners. I think, if she had time, she'd cook one every night for you."

Harry laughed. "She offered, actually, but I turned her down. I can't take her away from her house and her family every night, now, can I?"

"Right. I guess I'd better be off—Mom said she wanted me home by five, since we have company tonight. I can't believe two hours have passed. Time always flies by when you're having fun, you know?"

Harry knew—he had just gotten comfortable, and now she was leaving. "I guess I'll see you 'round, then. Make sure to warn Ron."

Harry walked her to the fireplace, ensuring that Malfoy didn't pull some nasty trick on her as she was leaving. He handed her the pile of books he had already finished, and she left through the floo. Harry sighed once she was gone and sank into a chair. Back to being alone. Well, as alone as you can get with Malfoy in your house. Oh Merlin, that just made the idea even worse.

Harry turned to Malfoy, who had watched everything from the same chair he had been in yesterday. He was holding what looked like the charms book they needed for homework over the summer. "Are you going to lower yourself to eating my food tonight, or should I only cook for myself?"

Malfoy looked up and sneered. It seemed every time he saw Malfoy, the boy was sneering. Was that a permanent look, or did he just not particularly like Harry? "What are you making?"

"Pasta."

Malfoy thought for a moment, probably debating whether or not Harry could screw up pasta. After a moment, he nodded. "Don't screw it up, Potter. It's not hard to boil water."

Harry sighed and went to the kitchen. At least pasta was easy to make—there wasn't a lot of thought process needed to put into it. After a while, Harry finished, and called for Malfoy. "Hey, git. Your food's ready." He fixed up a plate for Malfoy and put it on the table. Then he took his up to his room and hoped he wouldn't have to see the Slytherin for the rest of the night.

Once Harry had finished, he cleaned his plate with magic (Malfoy wasn't in the room, thanks be to Merlin) and picked up one of the books Hermione had left him. _Potions for Around the House_. Did Hermione really think he wanted to learn about potions? Harry rolled his eyes and looked at the next book. There was a book on Defense against the Dark Arts, and another on common charms for around the house. Was she making a point with all these 'Around the House' books? Okay, so there were only two—still. A couple of Muggle books he had never heard of—_Slaughterhouse-Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut and _Song of Solomon_ by Toni Morison—and that was it.

Harry picked one of the books at random—_Slaughterhouse-Five_—and began reading. He fell asleep with the book in front of him and began dreaming of little aliens and jumping around in time.

**xxx**

Draco put the charms book down with a sigh of frustration. He didn't understand his homework, and that was that. Why couldn't charms be…easier? Anyways, most of the useful charms were ones for doing very mundane things that could be done just as easily by a house elf, or even without a wand (Merlin forbid).

Draco stood up to take the plate back into the kitchen. He had to admit—the food hadn't been half bad. But he wouldn't tell Potter that. Better to let him squirm. He placed the plate on the counter for Potter to wash—he wasn't going to wash it in that sink, that was for sure, and there wasn't a house elf to clean it for him. Potter would just have to deal with it. If he could have done magic, he would have cleaned it—maybe—but he didn't think this dingy place had wards that would allow under-age magic over the summer. Leave it to Potter to be so unsophisticated.

Draco retrieved his charms book and returned to his room. The day had been relatively painless—Potter had kept to his room, and he hadn't had to endure Granger's company, which was a relief. He would have to find another place to read and do homework, though—he didn't like seeing Potter every time the boy had a mind to walk through the room. He didn't want to do homework in his room, either. He wanted a couch or a chair, or something like that. Oh well—he'd solve the problem tomorrow.

As he walked by, Draco saw that Potter had accidentally left his door open a crack—and he couldn't resist. He quietly pushed the door open just a little farther and slipped his head in. It seemed Potter had fallen asleep while reading—how tacky. At least Draco had the decency to close his book and put it down before falling asleep.

Draco smirked and retreated from the room, pulling the door back to its original position. He then gathered his things once again and took a bath—a much longer bath than last time. He sank into the warm tub, reveling in its comfort and letting it take away all the tension left over from not understanding Charms. Even without his favorite shampoo or all his other high-class bathroom things, this bath was wonderful. He couldn't wait until Severus returned and he could retrieve his things. Then this place would be heaven, and Draco wasn't sure he'd ever leave. Well, heaven except for Potter. Bugger, that had just ruined his thoughts.

His thoughts somewhat darker than they had been before, Draco began brooding. Nothing serious, just a little contemplating. About life. Draco ran his fingers lightly over the many scars that dotted his arms—long, short. Most were very small and almost invisible, but for someone who knew where to look for them…well, they were quite obvious.

Bugger. Now his bath was ruined.

**xxx**

A/N: Tralfamadore is owned by Kurt Vonnegut in his book, _Slaughterhouse-Five_. I advise reading it—it's wonderful. Johnny begs for reviews!


	4. Bloody Toaster

Mini-disclaimer: Kurt Vonnegut still owns all his aliens & time traveling nonsense. Consider this your last warning: I don't own his stuff. I just find it incredibly entertaining.

**Note:** Sorry for the delay. I was without access to the internet for about 3 weeks (and I would give you all the wonderful details, but I'm sure you don't care). Please forgive my lateness, and enjoy the chapter. Johnny loves you all!

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter Four: Bloody Toaster**

**xxx**

Harry was up earlier for usual, though he wasn't sure why. Generally he didn't wake up until nine or ten, but it was eight now and he was wide awake. He decided to take a bath—that was always soothing, and he had the time. So he gathered his bath things and a change of clothes (it wouldn't do to walk around in a towel, with Malfoy in the house and all) and proceeded to the bathroom.

After his bath it was almost nine (he always took long baths, for that bath was far too comfortable for his own good) and he decided to make breakfast. Still toweling his hair, Harry went into the kitchen—only to find Draco already making breakfast. Harry stopped dead in his tracks.

"Malfoy—what are you doing?"

"What does it look like, idiot? I'm making breakfast. Sometimes I swear you Gryffindors had your brains sucked out at some point in time. How do you like your toast done?" he asked. "Are you going to stand there all day and gape at me? You're doing a wonderful impression of that goldfish that Granger was yesterday. I repeat myself: how do you like your toast?"

Harry sat down, still dumbfounded. "On the dark side." For some reason, Harry felt like his privacy had been invaded. The kitchen had always been his, before. The only other person to use it had been Mrs. Weasley, but for some reason, that was more acceptable than this. Harry had always liked cooking—it took his mind of things. But now Malfoy was taking it away. Harry hadn't expected this. And—how did Malfoy know how to use a toaster?

Draco smirked, his back to Potter. This was fun. He should cook more often, he realized—he had never done it much back home, with house elves to do it for him all the time. He hadn't been sure about making breakfast—he didn't much like menial labor, and he hadn't wanted to seem as if he was being nice to Potter. He had just been bored. But now that he saw the lost look on Potter's face, it was definitely worth it. Anyways, cooking wasn't that hard—self-explanatory, almost. Definitely not as hard as people sad it was.

That was when it all went wrong. The toaster…it just…exploded. Draco jumped back, surprised. "What the hell? It's not supposed to do that?" The toaster was on fire, and the smoke was blackening the wall behind it. Draco thought it would burn the house down any minute.

He watched as Potter rushed to the sink, filled a pitcher of water, and poured it on the toaster. The contraption sizzled and sparked, but the flames died down and then went out. Potter was laughing.

"What are you laughing at, Potter?"

"You. The look on your face was priceless. Didn't you know that turning the toaster on too high would make it catch fire?"

"No. I've never seen one of those things before—it's a Muggle contraption, isn't it? Damn Muggles don't know how to do anything right," Draco scoffed. Harry was still laughing.

"How'd you know how to use it, anyways? It's Muggle, and you said you'd never seen one before." Harry was curious, to say the least.

"It's not like it's hard to figure out, Potter," he said haughtily. "It practically had directions printed on the side. I can't see how Muggles live without magic—it's so annoying to do things without magic."

Harry almost laughed; it seemed not telling Malfoy about their ability to use magic here was worth it—that entire episode was definitely worthy of Draco's anger when he found out Harry hadn't told him. "If it's so simple, Malfoy, why did you almost burn the house down? If I hadn't been here, we'd be up in flames right now." Malfoy sneered, but didn't answer. "Oh well. It's not important. I'll make the food from now on, if you don't mind—unless you want to learn how to use Muggle appliances, of course." Harry felt a strange sense of satisfaction—the kitchen was his again. He doubted Malfoy would stoop so low as to learn how to use a Muggle appliance.

Malfoy sneered, first at Harry, and then at the toaster. Then he stalked out of the kitchen, breakfast forgotten. Harry shrugged and pulled out a bowl and some cereal—no use making toast right now, and he didn't feel like anything complicated. He'd have to fix the toaster later, but it could wait.

Harry didn't see Malfoy until lunch, when the blonde-haired boy came down to grab something for lunch, and then promptly retreated back to whatever hole he had been hiding in originally. Harry didn't really care—the less he saw of the Slytherin, the happier he felt.

Harry was happily curled up in his favorite armchair—luckily not the one Malfoy seemed to be favoring, or there might have been a serious conflict—when the first Order member knocked on the front door (not all the Order Members had access through the floo network, of course; that would have been a safety hazard). Harry jumped up to answer it, already knowing who it would be.

"Hello, Tonks!" he said brightly after opening the door. For some reason, Tonks always arrived first—Harry wasn't sure if she was as suspicious as Moody (he usually arrived second, to make sure he wouldn't be ambushed), or if she just liked arriving early.

"Hello, Harry!" she said. Today her hair was very short and an almost-neon blue, and her eyes were a vivid purple. Harry smiled; she always did something strange when visiting him, if only to make him smile. "How are you today?"

"Okay, I guess. Did you hear the news?"

"About that young Malfoy staying with you? Yeah, I heard. So sorry, kid. He's a tough one. Being his cousin and all, I was sometimes forced to baby-sit him at the big parties. Too young to play with the adults and just old enough to watch over him. Merlin, that was a trial."

Harry brought Tonks into the living room and asked if she wanted something to drink. He then went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for her and some lemonade for himself, a huge smile plastered on his face. He loved it when the Order had their meetings. Even if he was never allowed to participate (and why not? He was supposed to be their savior, after all; he should know what's going on in the world), he loved socializing before and after the meetings. During the meeting he usually cooked food for everyone, and many had long since learned to stay for the meal. Harry always cooked something different—Thursdays, because of the meetings, were the only nights that varied in what was served.

Harry couldn't help but smile bigger when he came back into the room to see Tonks skimming one of the muggle books Hermione had lent him.

"Muggles sure do write some strange things, Harry. What's all this about aliens and time traveling?"

Harry laughed and shrugged. "Don't ask me. That's a book 'Mione brought to me the other day. It's…interesting."

Mad-Eye Moody took that moment to come in through the fireplace, signaling his arrival with a soft 'pop.'

"Hey, Moody. Want something to drink?" Moody patted the canteen at his side for an answer. "Right, I forgot. Nevermind, then."

"Can't be too careful, Harry."

Harry saw Tonks roll her eyes. It was an ongoing joke between them—both were waiting for the day he slipped up and actually accepted something to drink. Harry shared a small smile with her, and went back to socializing and greeting others as they arrived.

**xxx**

Draco jerked his head up. There it was again—it sounded like people talking. Draco was seriously debating on whether or not he should go look. He would love it if he found Potter having a conversation with himself. There would be no end to the jokes and puns that could come from that; Potter would never live it down. But the more he heard, the more it sounded like the number of voices were growing.

That could mean only one thing—guests. And Draco was so tired of Potter being his only company that he could barely restrain himself from jumping out of his seat, rushing downs stairs and kissing the feet of those people so kind enough to rescue him from eternal hell with Potter. Not that he would ever do that—he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys were too dignified to even _appear_ to be in a rush, and that said nothing about kissing the feet of others. He would never stoop as low as his father, to kiss the feet of someone—no matter how wonderful that person might seem. That was his first reason for not becoming a Death Eater (though his father didn't know that yet, thankfully—or he might not even be alive).

Even if he weren't in a rush to be rescued from Potter, though, he was still curious. Would this be the mysterious group of people this place served as Headquarters for? Draco had to find out. So he walked—calmly, as if he didn't care—down the stairs to see what was going on.

There were at least fifteen people in the living room right now, and it only seemed as if the number was growing. Another person arrived through the floo almost immediately, though Draco couldn't see who it was—too many people standing in the room. Among the people, Draco saw Tonks (damn cousin—she was far too happy and…bright…for his tastes), Mad Eye Moody (Draco seriously hoped it was the real one, though he highly doubted they would let another fake into their midst), Remus Lupin (wasn't the full moon tomorrow—shouldn't he be somewhere less…populated?), Severus (Oh, thank good—sanity!) and Dumbledore (bloody old codger, putting him here). There were others, too. It seemed like the entire Weasley clan had arrived, much to Draco's disgust, and there were many other people Draco didn't even recognize.

The room was becoming crowded, and if Draco didn't want to know what was going on so badly, he would have retreated to the sanctuary of his room. There were far too many Gryffindors here for him to be comfortable. Draco composed himself, though, and headed towards Severus—the only sane person in this bunch.

"Hello," Draco said. Severus just grunted. "I don't see how you can endure this. Too many bloody Gryffindors."

Severus snorted. "The sacrifices I make for the good of the world," he said with a touch of sarcasm.

Draco smiled. "It's good to see you, Sev. I was about to go bloody insane. Potter made me blow up some muggle contraption this morning, and then he laughed about it. The bloody Gryffindor has one too many screws loose."

Severus's face remained calm, though Draco could see the smile tugging at the corners of Severus's mouth. Not many people knew him well enough to see through the mask Severus wore, and Draco was proud of himself to be able to do so. But what would you expect from a Malfoy? Anyways, Severus was his godfather (though not many knew)—he was allowed to be able to read his godfather.

"I believe anyone would go insane if too much time was spent with Mr. Potter. Look at Mr. Weasley, after all."

Draco almost laughed—almost. He wouldn't allow himself to show that much emotion in a crowd, though. He had been taught to be a Malfoy, after all—stoic, calm, unaffected, and—above all—aloof. He did allow himself a smirk, though.

It seemed all the people had finally arrived. Draco looked around the room. Merlin, what had Tonks done to her hair now? That was an absolutely hideous shade of blue, and it clashed terribly with her eyes. She could have been one of the classiest, most dignified people in the world—everything could have looked good on her, and she could always match. But no; she had to be (one of) the black sheep of the family. She liked being outrageous and anything but 'matching' or 'dignified.' Draco sighed in exasperation.

There was Potter, Draco noted. He was next to Lupin and Weasley, talking animatedly. It seemed he was telling the story from this morning. Draco sneered with disgust; it was _not_ as funny as it seemed to be. Lupin did _not_ have to laugh that hard. The other people around them, either. And Potter had the biggest, most disgusting smile on his face.

This was the happiest Draco had seen Potter, actually. Not that he noticed, of course—it had just seemed to him that Potter was not exactly the happiest person on the world. Actually, he tended to sulk quite a bit. Malfoy prided himself on being observant (as a Slytherin, he had to watch his surroundings), but you would have had to been blind to notice that Potter wasn't happy. Even in the short period of time he had spent here (thankfully short—and he wasn't sure he could endure much longer), he had seen that Harry was more often depressed than anything else. He didn't even smile if another person wasn't here (or, in the case of this morning, Muggle contraptions were making Draco's life living hell).

Draco snapped himself out of his train of thought (he didn't like thinking about that Gryffindor too much; it made him uncomfortable) just ad Dumbledore called the meeting to order.

"Good evening, everyone." Good—pheh. Draco was here, so it was hardly good. Dumbledore was far too optimistic. "I trust everyone has had a wonderful week." Far from it, thank you very much. "Let us all thank Harry once again for the use of his house for a meeting place." Yes, lets give Potter more praise for all the nothing he's done for us. A murmur of gratitude went through the room, and Potter blushed—blushed, for Merlin's sake! Why would he blush? Bloody Gryffindors.

"Now, if we could all head to the den, we can start this meeting. The sooner it starts, the sooner it's over. I, for one, and looking forward to what Harry cooks for us tonight."

Draco started—Potter was cooking for all these people? Merlin help the world. And what was with the blushing? Draco rolled his eyes.

Severus bid Draco farewell and followed the adults up to the den. Draco desperately wished to join them and know what this was all about, but somehow he figured he wasn't invited. Anyways, he could give a fairly good guess. With the assortment of people here, it was rather obvious—this was some anti-Dark Lord group. Draco rolled his eyes. This had to be one of the stupidest things he had ever seen. For Merlin's sake—one of the people in this group was bloody Tonks! Draco smirked at the thought of her battling with some Death Eater—she could first blind him with her hair, and then kill him off with her annoying rabble. Draco just barely caught himself from snorting in amusement.

When all the adults had left, it was himself, Potter, Granger, and Weasley left. They were all wrapped up in a conversation, perfectly content to ignore Draco, but Draco wouldn't have that. He was a Malfoy, and he would have these people acknowledge his presence, at least. His pride demanded it.

"Weasley, if you're not going to participate in the meeting, then why come at all? You're just taking up space, and it's not like they need your advice, anyways. With our luck, you'd bungle the whole war." Draco gave the group one of his best sneers.

"I come for Harry's food, thank you very much. It's quite good, really. Anyways, I enjoy the company—or, I used to, at least. Ferrets aren't very good company, I've found."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Is that the best come back you can think of? Merlin, we are doomed. Anyways, I'll have you know that Potter here almost poisoned me."

Harry stood up suddenly, anger flashing in his eyes. "That would be hard, Malfoy, seeing as you barely eaten a bloody thing I've made since you've been here. Go die in a hole. We don't want you here anyway."

"Like I want to be here. I'd rather be making out with Pansy than sitting here with all of you, and that's saying something."

Draco threw one last condescending sneer at the group and stalked off to his room. Stupid Gryffindors.

**xxx**

Ron turned to Harry and let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell, mate. I sure do pity you."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Thanks. Well, it could be worse, actually. He tends to stay out of my way, and I don't exactly go looking for him. We don't see much of each other, unless it's mealtime or just in passing."

"That must have been brilliant, this morning—what's a toaster again?"

Hermione sighed in frustration. "Ron, it's not that hard to figure out. It's just an electronic device that cooks your food, most often bread, for you."

"And what's an 'electronic device' again? Really, Muggles are so confusing. Why go through all this trouble for some cooked food?"

Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. "I will never understand you, Ronald."

Harry laughed, and Ron winced. "Oh, what's with using the name? You know I hate that! Bloody women." Ron immediately cowed under Hermione's glare, though. Boy, she had him whipped, though Harry wasn't sure he wouldn't back down so easily if that glare was directed towards him. He swore that look (you know, the one that says 'You're sleeping on the couch tonight'?) was inherent in all women. "Sorry," Ron said, though the apologetic tone in his voice sounded slightly fake.

The trio slowly migrated to the kitchen, where Hermione and Ron helped Harry make dinner. Ron inspected the toaster for a while, asking Harry all sorts of questions about it (what's this black wire for? What happens if I stick my finger inside—will it toast me? What about if I press this button?). Dinner was made without mishap (well—only a minor one; the toaster threw sparks at Ron at some point in the night, catching the sleeve of his shirt on fire. He left the toaster alone after that), and best of all, it was all completed without further sighting of Malfoy.

At six thirty, the doors to the den were opened and the voices of the adults were heard approaching. Harry smiled—just in time, as always. He swore Dumbledore was a Seer or something, because he always let out the meetings just as Harry was finishing making the food.

The adults wandered in, grabbing the plates Harry had set out for them to use. Harry had set all the food out on the large table in the kitchen, and the adults passed through in a little line, getting the things they wanted. Tonight there was pork, mashed potatoes, French fries, corn on the cob, and rolls. Harry was quite proud of all the food he had made—who would have thought cooking for all those dinner parties Uncle Vernon used to have would turn out to be useful knowledge.

Malfoy appeared near the end of the line, chatting with Snape. Harry almost scowled—he could have just not shown up, and Harry would have been happy—but he didn't want to let Malfoy have the satisfaction of ruining his day.

Dinner was good, to say the least. Harry got many compliments on the food, as he usually did, and he blushed from every one of them, muttering things like 'Thanks' and 'It was nothing.' He sat on the couch with Remus and they talked about their days; Harry always liked spending time with Remus. It made him feel closer to his father and mother, in a way. The werewolf was looking too good, though. Harry was worried about him; with it being so close to the full moon, Remus was weak and vulnerable. He seemed a little paler and more drawn than usual, and he barely touched his food (well, all the food that wasn't the pork—he wolfed that down, no pun intended, and then he got seconds).

Too soon for Harry's liking, people were finishing their meals, saying their goodbyes and leaving. Almost everyone stopped by Harry to once again thank him and to wish him a nice evening. Harry's smile diminished little by little as each person left through the front door or through the floo.

Soon, it was only Remus, Dumbledore, Severus, Malfoy and himself left. Even Ron and Hermione had said their goodbyes. Harry's smile was almost gone, now, Remus sadly noted. He had watched the entire thing—watched as Harry grew more lonely and depressed as people left. It was the only reason he was staying longer—normally he would have left by now, talking of his soft bed at home, but he couldn't leave the boy in front of him.

Dumbledore finally stood up and, with the wave of his wand, whisked the cup of tea he wad been drinking back to the kitchen. "Harry, my boy, I am afraid it is time for me to go home. I'm not as young as I used to be, and I find I can no longer stay up as late as you and your friends." Harry refrained from scoffing; the old man had more energy than the energizer bunny on steroids. Remus gave him a look that said 'I know exactly what you mean,' and the two shared a private smile.

The smile didn't last for long, though. Remus stood up, taking Dumbledore's exit through the floo as the sign that he really did have to go now. Harry's eyes dimmed immediately. "Leaving?"

"I'm afraid so. But I will be well enough in time for dinner this Sunday, and we will talk more then. I'll try to come early, too." That received a small, sad smile from Harry.

Remus turned to Severus. "I still need to get the last batch of Wolfsbane from you. Can I do that right now, or are you busy?" he asked politely.

Severus turned to Draco. "I must leave, too. I have a potion I must attend to before it is ruined. I will visit on Monday, though, to make sure Potter has not killed you."

"Yes, let's hope he doesn't bore me to death. Or maybe his Gryffindor-ness will rub off on me, and I'll have committed suicide from complete and total embarrassment." Severus allowed Draco a small smile, as his back was turned to the rest of the group.

Remus turned back to Harry, who had stood to hug him goodbye. "Take care tomorrow, Remus. I'll be thinking of you."

Remus smiled. Harry was so like James at times—so thoughtful and caring, if a bit rambunctious and careless at times. "I know you will. Thank you. Have a wonderful night, Harry. See you on Sunday."

Remus and Severus left through the floo together, leaving the two boys alone. Harry looked cautiously at Malfoy for a moment, then turned away. No use trying to initiate a conversation, even if it was the polite thing to do in Harry's mind. Draco would only scoff at him and make some scathing remark, then retreat to his room. Instead, Harry began cleaning up. Even with magic to help, this part always took at least half an hour. Now, since Harry wasn't using magic in front of Malfoy, it would take at least twice as long. He'd rather get started as soon as possible.

Harry was, to say the least, surprised when Malfoy asked him a question—and in an almost civil tone of voice, no less! "So what was all that?"

Harry shrugged and continued to clean up. "It's the Order of the Phoenix." Draco snorted, but kept his mouth shut—he'd bet ten galleons that Dumbledore had came up with the name. It was so corny Draco could have gagged. Still, he didn't want to interrupt Potter—he wanted information. "They meet every Thursday to discuss stuff. We don't usually know what, though. We're not exactly invited. We used these ear-things Fred and George made for a while—they allowed you to listen to a conversation in another room—but they caught us for a while. They just discuss the war, mostly. At least, that's all there was in the conversations we overheard, though it wouldn't make a lot of sense if they discuss anything else, I guess. The all try to predict Voldemort's next move, but it usually doesn't work. Snape usually doesn't get enough information until right before an attack, and then it's sometimes too late to do a lot of good."

Draco suppressed a shiver at hearing the Dark Lord's name. He knew it was stupid to fear a name—it was a bunch of letters, for Merlin's sake—but it still sent chills down his spine. He had met the—thing—once. It didn't deserve to be called a man. Only in passing, thankfully, but it had been enough—enough to concrete the feeling that Draco did _not_ want to be a Death Eater.

But there was another piece of information that he needed to talk about now. It hadn't really clicked until Harry had mentioned it—Draco guessed that whole stuff about being so close you can't quite see what your looking at clearly was true—but now he needed to know. "Severus is a spy?"

Harry couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. "Weren't you listening? Anyways, I'd think you'd already know, you two being so close and all. What is he? Your bloody lover? You two were practically attached at the hip. No wonder he favors you in class."

Draco's face was contorted in disgust. "No, you sick pervert! Severus? Me? Please, at least believe that I have more class than that. We've always been close, Potter—him and my father used to be mates at school. He's my bloody Godfather, thank you very much. And he's about all I have right now, so you can just shove off."

Draco stormed off, not exactly happy. He didn't know what had possessed him. First, acting all civil—even if he wanted information, it hadn't been worth it. Potter had told him what he had already guessed; the only thing he'd learned was about Severus's position, and that hadn't been a great surprise. He should have guessed it the moment Severus had brought him here, actually—though he had to admit, Severus was damned good at acting. He hadn't suspected a single thing, and he knew his father didn't, either. That was saying something, seeing as his father was almost more paranoid than Mad Eye Moody.

Other than acting almost civil to get answers, what had possessed him to tell all those things to Potter? Very few people knew Severus's relation to Draco, though he was sure a few others suspected it. Only his parents, Severus, Draco, and a few very close friends and family. Not even the bloody Dark Lord knew! So why Potter? Other than to discourage any more sickening thoughts about romantic relations, that is.

Draco shook his head to clear it. That bloody Gryffindor had given him a bloody headache from all his bloody annoyingness. Draco sighed and retrieved a Headache Potion from his bag. Severus had long ago taught him how to make most simple (and a few complicated) healing potions, and he was grateful for it. People had no idea how often a Dreamless Sleep Potion or a Headache Potion came in handy, and Draco didn't see why more people weren't proficient inn Potion making.

Draco stared angrily at that one spot on his ceiling until he finally fell asleep. He woke up an hour later, took a Dreamless Sleep potion as well, and sighed happily as he fell into blissful unconsciousness

**xxx**

Harry was happily using magic to clean, now that Malfoy had stormed off to his room. Really, what was wrong with him? That comment had been meant as more of a joke, and Draco had gone and gotten all riled up about it. Okay, so it had been a little offensive and mean. Still, he could have kept his temper.

Harry sighed in frustration. This was not working—he knew they had to at least come to at least common understanding, maybe make at truce, to survive the rest of this summer, but that damn Slytherin was just so infuriating! But whatever they did, they had to get along better _soon_, or Harry was going to go crazy.

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny's going to go crazy, too, if you all don't review! So don't be shy! Contribute to Johnny's Sanity Relief Fund! It's tax deductible! And who can resist an offer like that?


	5. Attack of the Killer Phone

A/N: I do not like having to say this again, but in regard to the comment I got about Tonks being slightly OOC in the last chapter, I've already explained: I reserve the right to take creative license with my story—and that includes making Tonks into Draco's babysitter. 

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter Five: Attack of the Killer Phone**

**xxx**

Draco rearranged himself yet again—he could not get comfortable for the life of him. Potter had gotten up earlier than he, and had promptly taken a spot the living room to read one of those books Granger had bought him. Of course, Draco could always suck it up and use the living room as well, but he really didn't fancy seeing Potter's face unless he had to. So he had retreated to his bedroom to do homework.

Draco wondered momentarily why Potter wasn't doing his summer homework as well, but he chalked it up to Potter being a procrastinator. Why else would he wait? Draco scoffed—Potter was so lazy; it was quite sickening.

Draco sighed in frustration and nearly threw his Charms book across the room—he still didn't understand this homework. It shouldn't be this hard—it was just one simple spell! So why couldn't he do it?

Draco decided to put the book aside and do something else…the only problem was that there was nothing else to do. This entire house was so damn boring—well, except for the fights with Potter, but those weren't boring, they were torture. Still, he was close to going and seeking out a fight with that stupid Gryffindor, if only to have something to do. He was desperate.

Draco glanced at the magic clock that was situated near the door. It was almost one; he figured he could take a short break (or a long one, for that matter) from the damn Charms homework for lunch. It would at least give him something to do. Anyways, he hadn't had breakfast, as his stomach was reminding him. Not that he ate much anyway…

Draco got up and waltzed down to the kitchen, where he found Potter was also fixing his lunch. Potter glanced at him, but said nothing and turned immediately back to the sandwich he was making. It seemed he didn't want a confrontation right now, and for once, Draco agreed. He wanted food, and then he wanted out.

Draco grabbed an apple—what could he say; he was a light eater, if he ate anything at all—and turned right back around. No use sticking around with Potter in here. He assumed Potter would stay in the kitchen to eat lunch, so he took the opportunity to sit in his chair—well, the one he had claimed as his own—to eat.

While happily munching on his apple, Draco stared at what must have been a muggle contraption that was sitting on the table next to his chair. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It was an ugly gray, first of all, and Draco would be caught dead with anything that color in his house. It seemed to be made of two parts, attached by a long, black, twisted cord; the first part appeared to be a base for the second part to sit on. It was almost box-shaped, and it had lots of buttons on it. The second part was—well, Draco didn't know how to describe it. It was like a medium-sized tube bent at both ends. Draco would have touched it, maybe pressed some of the buttons, if it had not been for the incident with the other muggle contraption yesterday morning. Frankly, he just didn't touch things that had the potential to explode at any moment. He didn't like those kinds of surprises.

Draco was munching thoughtfully on his apple, entertaining himself by wondering what this contraption could possibly be used for. In no way was he prepared for what came next.

Suddenly and without warning, the damn contraption let out a high-pitched wail. To say the least, Draco nearly had a heart attack. The wail didn't last long, thankfully. He could hear Potter in the other room, quickly putting his things down to come into the room. Just as he thought the danger was over, it wailed again. This time, Draco gripped the arm of his chair and nearly let out a shriek.

Potter came into the room, hurrying to get to the damn contraption. "It's not going to bite you, Malfoy. It's just a phone. You could have answered it." The thing let out another wail, and Draco was close to hexing it, under-age wizarding laws be damned.

Draco looked at Potter as if were crazy. "Are you serious? The thing's—it's—it's attacking me, or something! For all I know, this is one of your crazy tricks and it could kill me!" he nearly screeched. It let out another wail, and Draco finally jumped out of the chair and nearly ran across the room. "Shut the bloody thing up, will you?"

The Potter laughed. Yes, laughed. Again. At Draco. Draco turned red in the face with anger—this was not bloody funny. What was that damned thing?

Potter picked up the tube-like part of the—what had he called it? Foon? Fun? No, that wasn't it—the thing was definitely not _fun_. Oh, bloody hell. Potter then picked up the tube-end and talked into it. Was he bloody crazy? He was talking to himself!

"Hello?" he asked into one end of the tube; the other was held to his ear—as if he would hear something out of it!

"Potter, if you bloody think I'm going to go along with your bloody game, then you've gone crazy. I am not—"

"Oh, hey 'Mione," he said. Potter held a finger up to signal silence from Draco, who shut up immediately from confusion. He had no idea how to respond to Potter's newfound craziness.

"Yeah, Malfoy here thinks the phone is going to eat him." So that's what it was called. Not that it mattered. "Yeah, he went ballistic when it started ringing." Harry laughed, and Draco could almost hear what sounded like Granger's laughter coming from the tube. "So what did you want?" Silence. "I don't know. Do whatever you think right." Draco fancied he could hear Granger saying something in frustration. "I don't know, 'Mione. I've never really had a bloody birthday party before. Do what you want—I'll like it either way."

That must have been the end of the—well, the only word for it was a conversation, but Draco seriously doubted that talking into an ugly gray tube as if feigning a conversation was considered, well…a conversation.

Potter put the thing—whatever it was—back where it had been earlier, and then he turned to Draco. "It's a phone, in case you're wondering. It allows Muggles to talk across great distances."

Draco scoffed. "I wasn't wondering." Well, that was a lie, but who cared? "Why would I care about a bloody Muggle contraption? Why do you have it around, anyways? The floo network is so much easier to use, and—safer, too. And the bloody thing that exploded yesterday, and that thing that keeps food cold? Why not just use a bloody cooling spell?" Draco was frustrated with all these Muggle things—they kept throwing him off guard or attacking him, and he was tired of it.

"Well, first off, I was raised by Muggles. Many of my friends were, too, and this is a Muggle neighborhood. Why abandon one way of life just because you found one new?"

"Maybe because it's a better, more efficient, less dangerous way to live?" questioned Draco sarcastically. This was so stupid

"It's not dangerous, Malfoy. You only think so because you accidentally made the toaster catch on fire yesterday. That wouldn't have happened if you knew how to use it properly." Draco scoffed. As if he wanted to know how to 'use it properly.' "Anyways, this stuff was already installed when I got here, though I'm not sure why. Maybe Sirius wanted to spite Mrs. Black—she always did hate Muggle things, and I bet she's rolling in her grave with Muggle things in her house. Another reason is that Dumbledore thinks they could come in useful."

Draco raised a single eyebrow, waiting for Potter to explain himself. Why could Muggle things be useful? Mrs. Black had been right to hate Muggle things, in his opinion. It seemed they would have gotten along just fine. "And how would a muggle contraption come in useful?" That old man might have lost one too many marbles, it seemed.

"Voldemort hates all things Muggle. Therefore, he won't use Muggle things; he wouldn't even think about it. Dumbledore hopes that if a battle comes and we desperately need to get in touch and Voldemort's knocked out all other methods of communication, he might have overlooked any Muggle devices—phones included. All the top Order Members have a phone and have been taught how to use it, though phones do not work at Hogwarts due to the excess magic." Draco suppressed a shiver at hearing the Dark Lord's name—did the bloody Gryffindor really have to say that name all the time?

"The old coot's lost it," said Draco. None of this really made sense—Muggle contraptions saving the world? As if.

"I don't think he ever had it." Draco had to suppress a smile—Potter was almost funny there. But he wasn't going to smile at a joke Potter made if his life depended on it. "Still," he continued, "it's nice to have them anyways. Just in case, you know?"

"No, I do not know," said Draco haughtily. "I'm not in the practice of keeping useless Muggle things around the house _just in case_."

Potter smiled. "You're just mad because you thought the phone was going to eat you. It's an inanimate object, Malfoy—neither it nor the toaster can harm you."

Draco scoffed. "I'll believe that when I see it. Of the two Muggle things I've encountered, both have come close to killing me. I think that's better proof than anything you could say."

"Malfoy. It rang. That's all that happened. It didn't even burst into flames like the toaster. How could it have hurt you, again?"

"You tell me, Potter. It's your muggle thing." Draco turned and walked back up to his room. This was ridiculous—for Merlin's sake, he was willingly talking to Potter about the Muggle things in the house. Could it be any worse?

**xxx**

Harry crawled into bed at eleven o'clock. Friday had always been cleaning day, and he had just finished all the things he needed to get done. One thing about having Malfoy in the house was that it gave him more to do—he didn't have as much time to be guilty. Malfoy always left something to be picked up, or he entered the room and suddenly Harry was distracted with all the arguing. It was nice to be distracted, but Harry still wished it wasn't Malfoy doing the distracting.

While waiting to fall asleep, Harry thought of all the things that had gone on the past couple days concerning Malfoy. That boy would never cease to amaze him. First, asking all those questions about Muggle things—that was just strange. Then having an almost decent conversation last night, as well as just now. Harry never would have guessed he'd ever have a semi-civil conversation with Malfoy, let alone two. Things were just too weird.

Harry was just drifting off to sleep when he was jerked out of dreamland by a blood-curdling scream. Harry jumped upright in bed, the wand that had been under his pillow pulled out in defense, though he wasn't sure for what. After a moment of listening, Harry heard nothing else—it must have been his imagination, or maybe Mrs. Black had just wanted to be spiteful. Either way, there was no danger.

Or not. Harry was just about to settle back into his bed when he heard the scream again. And now that he was mostly awake, that scream sounded distinctly as if it came from Malfoy.

Harry jumped out of bed and raced down the hall without a second thought. He didn't have a clue what might be attacking Malfoy, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't some stray Muggle appliance. Harry was not prepared for what he saw once he entered Malfoy's room, though now that he saw it, it made perfect sense.

Malfoy was having a nightmare. He was currently thrashing about on his bed, a look of pain and fear contorting his face. He had thrown off the covers at some point, and was currently shivering in his boxers, his white skin puckered in goose bumps. In a moment of inaction, Harry saw the pale tracings of scars marring Malfoy's flesh—lines that ran up and down Malfoy's arms in intricate, random patterns. He would have taken a moment to wonder what the scars were from, but all thoughts of asking Malfoy were thrust violently out of his head as Malfoy screamed again.

Harry walked slowly over to Malfoy, ready to wake him up, but stopped when he heard Malfoy talking. Was he awake? No—just talking in his sleep.

"No, please! Don't! Father, please don't. Please. Mother, help me, won't you? Mother!" Malfoy was thrashing around in bed, the covers already shoved off in a fit of movement. Malfoy let out another blood-curdling scream, and Harry decided he needed to wake up Malfoy _now_. This was getting creepy.

Harry placed a hand on Malfoy's shoulder—it was cold—and gently shook him. "Malfoy. Malfoy, wake up. You're dreaming. Malfoy."

Malfoy's eyes flew open as he let out yet another scream. In his sleepy stupor, Malfoy surged forward and punched Harry squarely on the jaw, sending Harry flying back into the wall. Malfoy sat up in bed, breathing hard, and rested his head n his hands.

"Potter," he said after a minute, "What are you doing here?" His voice was cold and condescending, and it made Harry slightly angry.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, I was just trying to help. Sorry if I had the decency to wake you up."

"You didn't need to do that," he said angrily. "I would have been fine." Harry wanted to scream at him—all right? Malfoy was still shaking, and obviously he was having trouble breathing. He would _not_ have been all right, and he knew that.

"Malfoy, some people are decent. Some people wake others up—no matter whom they are—just because it's the polite, nice thing to do. Anyways, I wasn't likely to get a lot of sleep with you screaming bloody murder."

"Screw you, Potter." Malfoy was breathing harshly, and his eyes were dilated slightly. Obviously, something was wrong, and he just didn't want to talk about it.

Harry was silent for a while, letting Draco regain his composure. In those few moments of uncertainty, where terror still gripped Draco's body, Harry felt as if he could almost see right to Draco's soul—all the intricacies that no one ever witnessed. When Draco finally took his head out of his hands, and his breathing had returned to semi-normalcy, Harry assumed it was safe to talk—as safe as it would get, at least. "What were you dreaming about, anyways? Do you want to talk about it?" Harry stood up and walked so he was next to the bed. Despite his general hatred of Malfoy, he still felt pity for the Slytherin. That had sounded like a horrible dream—what could his father have been doing that was so terrible? How could anyone be subjected to something that…scary?

Malfoy looked at Harry, obviously deep in thought. The mask he normally wore had crumbled, and Harry could almost read the emotions that flitted across his face. Malfoy seemed on the verge of talking, and Harry was scared of what he might say—were they about to have a heart to heart conversation? That would be…strange and different, to say the least. Malfoy drew his mask back on, though, and his eyes were suddenly cold and indifferent once again. "I don't remember, Potter. Go away."

"Liar. Sleep better, Malfoy. And if you have another bad dream, try to keep the screaming to a minimum. I'd like to get some rest." Harry slowly walked back to the door, relief and disappointment flooding through him at the same time. He wasn't sure what he would have done if Malfoy had suddenly poured his heart out, but he was almost sad that he couldn't help.

Harry closed the door quietly behind him and walked slowly back to his room. What had gotten into him? He didn't want to know what Malfoy was thinking—why Malfoy was having nightmares! He had just wanted to get some sleep without Malfoy screaming in the background. So why ask all those questions? Why did he want to know so badly? So he could help? Harry chalked it up to his general curiosity and desire to help people. Or something like that.

**xxx**

Malfoy rolled over in his bead, unable to go back to sleep. What was with Potter? First coming in here to wake him up—stupid bloody Gryffindors and their bloody sense of duty. And then asking those questions, as if he cared! Like Potter cared about anything that didn't revolve around him and all the wonderful things he'd done and would do. Bloody Gryffindors.

Draco sighed and rolled over to stare at the spot on the ceiling—damn spot. It mocked him. He kicked the covers off, finding it too hot to sleep with them on right now. Why had he almost told Potter about his dream? It wasn't as if Potter cared, and he most definitely did not want Potter to know. So why did he almost 'spill the beans' when Potter had shown the slightest bit of concern? Draco figured it was because he had been emotional—the nightmare had brought back many memories Draco was afraid of, even though they were just memories. So he had been slightly emotional and not thinking very clearly, and therefore he had almost told Potter. Anyone that had shown any concern at that point in time would have gotten the same treatment, right? Anyone at all. It wasn't just Potter.

Draco sighed in frustration. This was pointless. He got up and rummaged around in the bottom drawer of the dresser in the room for a Dreamless Sleep potion. He knew the implications of doing that—two of those potions in two nights was not healthy. If he weren't careful, he would become addicted to them. But he wanted to sleep, and he didn't want to revisit that damn nightmare. It wouldn't be very good if Potter had to come save him yet again from a nightmare.

**xxx**

It was just before dinner the next day, and Harry had retreated to his little alcove in the attic. While cleaning out and organizing the attic, he had found the old couch and a few other smaller (and most definitely older) pieces of furniture. Sometimes he, Hermione and Ron would all come up here during Order meetings, if all the food was already cooked. Or Harry would just come up here alone and relax, read a book, and get away from the world.

Right now, Harry was sulking. Malfoy's bad dream had kept him up all night, for he could not get to sleep afterwards. And whenever Harry was left awake for too long, he began thinking about Sirius. That was never good for his health…

Why had it been Sirius? Why not someone else—like Snape, for example? Sirius and he were going to move in when his name was cleared. He was going to have family who loved him, not the Dursleys. Now he had nothing but an old house that didn't feel like his with old memories that didn't belong to him. It wasn't fair that Sirius was taken away.

The worst part was that it had all been his fault. If Harry hadn't acted so brashly, none of it would have happened. Sirius would be here, laughing and joking and being himself. Harry closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry. The chances of Malfoy coming up the stairs right now were slim to none, but he didn't want to take any chances, and he especially didn't want Malfoy to see him crying. Which would be why, when Malfoy came up the stairs, as quiet as a mouse, Harry had no idea he had arrived.

**xxx**

Draco was looking for Potter, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He told himself it was because he was hungry and he didn't get along very well with the Muggle appliances, as proven in the past few days. He was still convinced that the phone was trying to attack him. But that wasn't the point—the point was, he was hungry, and he wanted Potter to make something. That was what he told himself, at least. He had a sneaking suspicion there was more too it, though, but he wasn't about to examine that feeling. Especially one that felt so much like he wanted to thank Potter for waking him up last night.

Draco looked in the kitchen, but Potter was not there already cooking food. Potter wasn't in the living room, the drawing room, or any of the bedrooms (including Draco's own). He wasn't in the bathroom, and he wasn't in the closet. So that left—the attic. Draco walked up the stairs quietly, as per usual, hoping that Potter had not disappeared.

Come to think of it, the last time Draco had seen Potter had been at breakfast, and Potter hadn't looked so hot then—slightly sullen, and like he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. Draco would have felt guilty about that, except he didn't really care. But where could the damn boy be hiding? There wasn't a secret room in this house, was there?

Draco paused in mid-thought when he saw the unmistakable form of Potter lying on the couch. He approached stealthily, not wishing to alert Potter of his presence. It would be absolutely wonderful if he could scare Potter right now—just perfect.

Draco stopped in his tracks when he saw the tears running down Potter's face. What was wrong? Would he be alright? No, those were stupid questions. Would he be making dinner? That was a much better question. Draco was about to say something, but he stopped. He really didn't want to disturb Potter right now—if only because he didn't want a crying Gryffindor on his hands. Dinner would be a much safer bet if he went about it on his own for now. He was sure a sandwich would be nice, or maybe an apple to hold himself off until Potter snapped out of his little reverie and got the brains to cook something.

At least, that was what he told himself. He was doing a lot of that lately.

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny keeps telling himself that you'll review, though I don't know. Maybe you should! It would make us both so…happy…


	6. Weasley Dinner

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 6:Weasley Dinner**

**xxx**

Harry yawned and stretched. It seemed he had fallen asleep on the couch in the attic, without having dinner or anything. He briefly wondered what Malfoy had done without anyone to cook for him, seeing as the Slytherin was absolutely helpless in the kitchen, but he shoved the thought away—it wasn't that important, after all.

Harry blinked his eyes rapidly, so that they would adjust to the dim light in the attic, and sneezed violently—he'd have to get up here to clean the dust soon, or at least get Mrs. Weasley to do another dust-cleansing charm. Though it didn't usually get all the dust, it generally did a good job and saved Harry a lot of work. Still, doing the work by hand would give him something to do for a couple days next week, at least.

Harry glanced at his watched—nine thirty. He must have been tired, to have slept this long. He grinned tiredly—he felt as if he could still sleep another two hours or so.

Harry decided on pancakes for breakfast—yes, they took a little longer to prepare, but sometimes, they were just worth the effort. Anyways, he wanted to use those blueberries before they went bad. He was sure that if Malfoy didn't like it, he would find something else to eat, so Harry wasn't worried.

Halfway through the second batch, Malfoy came waltzing downstairs, just as composed as ever. Every single hair was in place—Harry almost envied that much control over one's hair. Almost. It was Malfoy, after all. "Pancakes, Malfoy? They're blueberry." Malfoy eyed the pancakes critically. "They're not poisonous, and I didn't lace them with anything that might embarrass you."

"I doubt you'd have the balls to lace them with anything, Potter." Harry would see about that. The next thing he made he was sure Malfoy would be eating, he'd put something in it—he was sure Fred and George had something they could give him that would bring a few laughs and give Harry a great story to tell to his friends.

"Right. Anyways, the Weasleys and Remus are coming tonight. We all have dinner together every Sunday. Mrs. Weasley will be here around four to begin cooking—she always makes a big meal. If you want to eat with us, she said she'll be happy to cook extra for you, but otherwise let her know. And if you don't want to eat with us, you'll want to either have an incredibly early or an incredibly late dinner."

While he was talking, Harry whisked out a plate and put two pancakes on it. He then placed the syrup and butter nearby—though he almost second-guessed himself about that when Malfoy looked at the syrup bottle as if he didn't know what to do with it. Did wizards eat pancakes with syrup? Yes, Harry saw, as Malfoy took the bottle, sniffed it cautiously (did he really have to be that damn cautious? Harry wasn't going to do anything, already!), and put some on his pancakes. It seemed Malfoy just didn't like the Muggle bottle—though frankly, Harry wasn't all that surprised. He still hoped that, somehow, Malfoy ended up pouring it all over himself in some freak accident, but he was sadly disappointed when the bottle turned to its upright position with no incident. It would have been great to see Malfoy covered in all that sticky mess—Harry would have to keep that in mind for the future, just in case. He was sure he could do something with that.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He hadn't needed that much information, really. Potter could have left it at the end of the first sentence. The rest was superfluous. "Sure, Potter. I have nothing better to do, after all, and you seem to find great pleasure in remembering my experiences cooking." Harry snickered, and Malfoy sneered. The other day, Malfoy had had another bad experience cooking when he hadn't realized that plates were hot after they were put in the microwave. He had said something about all the Malfoy's plates being magically charmed to be only mildly warm—at most—to the touch so that no one would be burned, but Harry hadn't really been paying attention. He'd been laughing too hard, after all, to listen to Malfoy preach on and on about his family, which wasn't really worth listening about in the first place.

"Right, then. I'll let Mrs. Weasley know." Harry gave a tolerant smile to Malfoy, and returned to his pancakes. He was finished with his second batch by now, and starting on his third (he didn't know how much Malfoy would eat, and he wanted at least three for himself); Harry had always been able to cook while focusing his attention on something else; it had mostly come from having to listen to Aunt Petunia rattle on and on about the neighbors and such while Harry was cooking breakfast or lunch.

The rest of breakfast passed without mishap. Harry gathered up Malfoy's plate, which he had just left on the table without a second thought, and said a quick spell to have the breakfast things cleaned and back in their proper places—Malfoy wasn't around, after all, and Harry would be damned if he'd go about things the long way just in case Malfoy might walk in and find out Harry had been lying to him about no magic this entire time. Or rather, just not stating the entire truth, for Malfoy had never really asked if they could use magic—he had just assumed not. And Harry had never taken the opportunity to correct him.

**xxx**

Mrs. Weasley arrived promptly at four o'clock, as she did every week. She brought Ron with her, and Hermione soon followed through the floo network. The others would come later, when dinner was closer to being finished.

"Hey Ron, 'Mione. How are you two?"

"Good," they chorused, then blushed. It seemed they were already on the same wavelength, thought Harry. Already talking together and everything.

"We went out last night. Sorry we didn't call you, Harry," said Hermione.

"Oh, no worries," said Harry with a dismissive gesture. "You know I can't go out anyways. Dumbledore's too protective." That didn't mean he wasn't jealous and a little hurt, but he wouldn't burden Ron and Hermione with that knowledge.

The trio went up the stairs and into Harry's bedroom, where they relished in the privacy of locked doors. Luckily, they didn't see Malfoy on the way up—Harry really didn't want Ron and Malfoy to have a go at it right now. He just wasn't in the mood.

When they got to the room, Hermione took the added precaution of putting up silencing and locking charms. Harry looked at her in questioning. "What's that for?" he asked curiously.

"We've been meaning to talk to you, Harry," said Hermione. Her voice was a little gentler than Harry would have liked, and Ron seemed to find his shoes the most interesting thing he'd seen all day. He didn't want to think about where this conversation was going.

"We're worried about you, Harry," said Hermione. She placed a gentle hand on Harry's arm, and Harry almost couldn't resist the urge to shake it off.

"What do you mean? I'm fine."

Ron looked up at him, discomfort struggling with concern on his face. "Well, mate, you've been a bit…distant lately. Is this about…Sirius?" Ron's voice got quieter and quieter throughout his mini-speech, as if he was scared of someone overhearing, even with the silencing charm.

"Harry, Dumbledore's been worried about you. He told us that you weren't…taking Sirius's death very well. We know how you feel," said Hermione sympathetically.

Harry was getting angry now. What right did they have to butt into his life like this? "Well you wouldn't bloody be taking it well, either, if you'd bloody _killed_ him. And how, exactly, do you know how I feel? He wasn't your godfather, your only _friendly_ relation. He wasn't the person you'd been looking for nearly your entire life, just to know that someone loved you and would take care of you. He didn't die as a result of your actions." Harry forced the tears welling up inside back—it wouldn't do good to cry now. "It's not your business, anyways. I'll be fine."

"Harry," said Hermione, almost pleading. "We just want to help. We know it has to be hard, especially living here with all these things to remind you of him. You know you can talk to us any time about it."

"I'm fine!" shouted Harry. "It's not your business. Just stay out of it, okay? I don't want to hear anything more about it. I'm going to see if Mrs. Weasley needs some help."

With a flick of the wrist, Harry disarmed the silencing and locking spells and stormed out of the room. He didn't head to Mrs. Weasley, though. Instead, he almost ran up to the attic. He bumped into Malfoy on the way, who let out a curse and yelled something about paying attention to where he was going, but Harry wasn't really listening.

What right did they have? They didn't know what he was feeling. They didn't have a clue. Harry had killed off the last of the family that loved him—they still had their parents, siblings, and everyone else. Harry had the Dursleys, who hated him, to say the least. Harry _had_ had Sirius—but then he'd been killed, and it was all Harry's fault.

Harry collapsed on the couch in the attic, waiting for the tears that were stinging his eyes to fall, but they never came. It seemed he had cried himself out last night.

Harry sulked for another half-hour, then went down to the kitchen. It was almost five, and soon the others would be arriving. He didn't want to be a poor host and not be around to greet them. Harry put a smile on his face—he'd become quite adept at faking a smile in the past few years—and waited for the first people to arrive through the floo.

Remus was the first, of course. "Hi, Harry," he said congenially. "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier; I had meant to be here by four, at least, but you know how Madame Pomfry can be."

Harry laughed and smiled, and this time, it felt a little less forced. Remus always had that effect on Harry—he almost couldn't resist smiling, sometimes. "I know, I know. It's alright, really." Anyways, if Remus had come earlier, he might have caught Harry at a very bad time. "It's good to see you. How are you doing?" Harry couldn't hide the concern in his voice—he was always worried after the full moon. He didn't want Remus to leave him now, too—Remus was the only connection he had to his parents and Sirius, and he didn't want that to go away.

Remus gave a tolerant smile. "I'm fine, Harry. I've done this for a long time. I can take care of myself, now."

Harry grinned. "I know. I just can't help it."

"Yes, yes. Well, it's nice to have someone worrying for my health every once in a while. Sirius was the last to do that and truly mean it, and I was beginning to miss his concern." Harry's face darkened immediately at the mention of Sirius—Remus missed him, too. And it was all his fault that Sirius wasn't able to be concerned for Remus.

Luckily, Mr. Weasley took that moment arrive (somewhat ungracefully) through the floo. A large cloud of dust and grime from the chimney settled over the room, leaving all the occupants coughing. Remus waved his wand and hacked out some spell that made all the soot disappear with a small 'poof.'

"You'll have to teach me that spell, Remy," said Harry after recovering a bit. "It seems quite useful."

"Yes, well, another time. We're here to have fun, for now, not take extra lessons over the summer."

"What do you mean by that, Remy?"

"Dumbledore has just informed me. I will be returning to Hogwarts to teach in September. It seems that the parents of the students have conceded that I was the least dangerous of our previous Defense against the Dark Arts teachers, and would prefer to have me back than a new professor again. Better to deal with a danger you know about and can protect against than to allow one that you don't even recognize."

Harry wrapped Remus into a warm, enthusiastic embrace, and was soon followed by Ron and Hermione, who had just entered. "That's so wonderful to hear, Remus!" squealed Hermione.

"Yeah, it'll be great to actually learn DADA, instead of just read about it," said Ron with an added pat to Remus's back. Harry just smiled—this was so great. Much better than the conversation he had just had with Ron and Hermione.

The other Weasleys had arrived through the floo as the conversation carried on, and had learned of Remus's good news in the process; the room was soon full of congratulations and hugs from the entire Weasley clan.

Draco had arrived somewhere in the middle of the fray. He couldn't help but sneer in disgust—that werewolf was returning to teach in the fall? Granted, he had been (by far and away) the best DADA teacher they'd have in their entire school career, but wasn't he dangerous? Even with the Wolfsbane potion, he could do a bit of harm. What was stopping him from turning another student or something? His father would not like hearing about this—but thoughts of his father made Draco remember that his father was in Azkaban and unable to do anything about it. Draco was helpless now. This thought only served to depress Draco further—not only did he have to deal with a bloody army of Gryffindors right now, but the werewolf was returning to teach and his father couldn't do a thing about it.

Mrs. Weasley soon appeared in the doorway to the kitchen to announce that dinner was ready. The entire bunch filed into the dining room to sit around the dining table, which had been magically expanded to fit all the people. Draco followed reluctantly—what had come over him? Why on earth had he agreed to eat with these people? He wasn't hungry, and he was probably just going to empty it into the toilet later, and it meant having to deal with all these damn Gryffindors at the same time. There was absolutely no reason he should be here. He should have just grabbed an apple before that old Weasley woman had begun cooking and settled for that. Now he was bloody stuck with these people.

Draco sat down sullenly in the only seat left open to him, which was between that damned werewolf and Mr. Weasley. This was wonderful. Bloody wonderful. Draco wanted to scream, or maybe to run back into his room and hide, but two things prevented him from doing so: one, he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys followed through with things they said they would do (with pride and dignity, he might add), and Malfoy had said he would have dinner with the Weasleys and all Potter's other Gryffindor buddies. Two, he was too bloody scared to actually draw attention to himself by bolting for the door like some scared woodland animal.

The dinner was only slightly bearable, if that. Draco just kept to himself. He gladly allowed Mr. Weasley and Lupin to talk over him as if he wasn't there, willing to ignore anything and everything they said. He stared at his food for the most part, ignoring the rest of the table. If a question was asked of him, he answered haughtily and as dignified as he possibly could, sneered, and returned to his plate of food, which was quite good, he had to admit—that Weasley woman could cook, which wasn't really surprising, seeing as she had so many kids she had to cook for and all. Too bad he'd have to puke it all up later to keep his trim figure. That thought was mildly disturbing for a moment, but the feeling passed quickly and Draco returned to his normal self—which, at the moment, was sulking and slightly (okay, very) irascible.

There was a slight problem with sulking so much—it tended to make one very involved in one's self. That meant not paying a lot of attention to one's surroundings, and that meant not noticing when the twins managed to slip something into his drink. It was two full minutes of laughter from his surroundings that warned Draco that something might have been wrong. Draco looked around suspiciously for a moment—whatever it was that made these damn people laugh so much had better be funny, or he was seriously going to be pissed that they interrupted his wonderful self-absorption.

Then Draco saw his hands. They were…colored. One was red, and the other gold. Gryffindor colors. Draco took a moment to let this information sink in. It only took a moment, though. God-bloody-dammit!

Draco sent a withering glare towards the twins; he didn't have to be told to know that the twins were behind this. If it wasn't their reputation that gave it away, it was the malicious smiles that graced both of their faces, or the evil laughs, or maybe even the small packet one of the twins held up (Draco couldn't be sure which) that said something about color-changing powder.

God-bloody-dammit. Draco stood, seething. Bloody Weasley twins. Bloody Gryffindors. Bloody dinner. This always had to happen to him, didn't it? It wasn't enough that Potter spread all those stories about his slightly embarrassing encounters with Muggle contraptions (he had already heard mention of the ringing phone, though he wasn't sure when Potter had told his friends), but now they ere all bloody pranking him.

Draco stormed out of the room, Malfoy pride and dignity be damned. He stalked up to his room, and after slamming the door shut behind him, he placed several of the strongest locking and silencing charms he knew on the room. Damn the Ministry and underage use of magic—he'd deal with the consequences later.

Then Draco collapsed on his bed and cried. These past few days had just been so horrible and stressful, and he wanted it to all be over with—he'd prefer school any day to this torture, and that was saying something. The dreams, staying here with Potter, the pranks, the damn Muggle contraptions that attacked him, his parents in Azkaban (which, though relieving, was still stressful), and everything else that had happened recently. The horridness of it all overwhelmed Draco at that moment, and the tears could not be stopped. Though Malfoys didn't cry in public (not even around your family, parents included), it was perfectly tolerable to do so in the privacy of your own quarters—hence the silencing and locking charms.

Draco fell asleep some time later, though he had no idea when.

**xxx**

Mrs. Weasley reprimanded Fred and George as soon as Malfoy had fled the room, but no one took it very seriously—it was just a joke, and the effects would wear off in less than an hour (just a prototype, said Fred and George—not yet powerful enough to last for any decent amount of time, though it was still quite amusing; they had colors for every single school house, as well as some random ones, like fuchsia and lime green). Anyways, it was quite amusing to see Malfoy wearing Gryffindor colors, even if slightly unconventionally.

The rest of dinner was completed in relative peace. Of course, moments later, everyone else at the table found that Fred and George had slipped similar concoctions into everyone else's drinks, and the room was soon filled with a bright, colorful, gaudy people. Ron looked especially horrendous in the fuchsia and lime green the twins had been talking about.

By the time everyone, including Remus, had left, the colors had worn off. Harry was just relieved to lose the lavender-orange color he had acquired—those were certainly not 'his colors,' as Hermione put it. Then again, pink-neon blue were definitely not her colors, so she didn't have a lot of room to talk.

Harry waved his wand, and the mess in the kitchen was cleaned up. He didn't feel like even trying to pretend to Malfoy that underage magic was illegal in this house. Anyways, it didn't seem that Malfoy would be coming down anytime soon, so it didn't really matter.

Harry felt a little bad, though he wasn't sure why. He assumed it had something to do with Malfoy being pranked, but Harry thought he should feel happy and slightly triumphant about that—not guilty and a little apologetic, as he felt now. Of course, his guilt could also stem from the miserable look Malfoy had worn throughout dinner. Even a blind man would have been able to see through the arrogant Malfoy mask tonight to see that he was truly miserable. It must be hard, losing your family, home, money, and a lot of your dignity (though surely not all of it) in less than a week. Spending an evening with many of your most loathed enemies certainly wouldn't make that better, either.

Harry felt the strange urge to apologize to Malfoy. It would certainly help get rid of the guilty feeling he was experiencing currently. Still, this desire to apologize to Malfoy felt strangely reminiscent of the other night, when he had wanted to know what Malfoy had a bad dream about. He didn't like that—it was almost as if he was subconsciously trying to get closer to Malfoy, and he didn't like that idea at all. He didn't want to be closer to the Slytherin git…did he?

Harry shook his head and sucked it up. Ulterior-motive or not, he was going to apologize to Malfoy. It was the right thing to do, after all. He had offended his houseguest, and even if that houseguest was a sneaky Slytherin that desired his downfall, it was not right to leave this matter unsettled.

Which would be why Harry was currently knocking on Malfoy's door. No answer. Damn. Maybe that's a sign to go away. Nah, couldn't be. Maybe he just fell asleep, or something. But then why should he be woken up? Harry turned to walk away, then turned back to face the door. He tried the doorknob. Locked. And the faint glowing around the door signified a couple locking charms, and maybe a silencing charm in there, too.

Harry waved his wand and whispered a couple counter-charms he knew, then tried the doorknob again. Nothing. Harry pressed his ear against the door, trying to listen for sound. Nothing. Definitely a silencing charm or two up. Harry was getting slightly frustrated at not being able to enter the room. It was his house, after all—he should be able to enter any damn room he wanted to. A rational part of his brain told him that Malfoy had the right to do what he wished with his room, but Harry ignored that part of his brain—he much preferred being irrational, even if he didn't really understand why he wanted to get through this door so badly.

Of course, his frustration at not being able to get into Malfoy's room might also be fed by pent-up frustration from his conversation with Hermione and Ron earlier, which they had reminded him of just before they left. Harry had ignored their concerned touches and looks, brushed off their caring words, and sent them out the floo. But all that sympathy had still grated on his nerves.

Harry cast a couple more powerful counter-charms, but only one of the many spells on the door was cancelled, and he wasn't sure which one it was. This was getting only slightly perturbing.

Actually, Harry was pretty pissed by now.

Harry planted both feet firmly, not really knowing what he was doing. He pocketed his wand, knowing subconsciously he would not need it to do whatever he was doing. He placed both hands on the door and channeled as much of his magical energy through his hands as he could. "I, Harry James Potter, Master of this household, demand entry."

Without really knowing what was happening, the door flew open with a bang that resounded throughout the house and, most importantly, woke the sleeping blonde on the bed, who jumped up with a start, already brandishing his wand in Harry's general direction. He stopped when he saw who it was, but the slight fear and determination that had been in Malfoy's eyes suddenly changed to anger. Somewhere in the background, Mrs. Black was screaming again, though Harry didn't really take notice.

"Bloody hell!" shouted Malfoy. "What happened, Potter? What'd you do to my door?"

Harry's, still incensed from not being able to open the door originally and still pumped from all the magic coursing through his body, took the same offensive tone as Malfoy's. "I was trying to open a door in _my _house, Malfoy. Did you need so many bloody locking and silencing charms? I wouldn't intrude on your blessed privacy without good reason, so you don't need to be so damned cautious. Anyways, I just opened the door."

"Potter, not many wizards would have been able to get through that door without a lot of difficulty, and especially not without his wand."

The first glimmer of recognition came into Harry's eyes as the previous events began to sink in. "How did you know I didn't use my wand?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's in your pocket, Potter. I'm not an idiot, you know, and I'm definitely not blind. So how'd you do it?"

"Do what?" Malfoy rolled his eyes as if Harry were an idiot. "Open the door?" Malfoy nodded impatiently, as if he were trying to be patient with a little kid. "I don't know," said Harry simply.

"Bloody hell, Potter, you don't know how you opened the door? Tell me what you did. Don't leave anything out."

"Well, after finding I couldn't disarm the spells, I got really angry. Now that I think about it, I shouldn't have gotten that angry—I didn't really have a good reason, and—"

"Potter, you're getting off topic. Continue with your story, already."

Harry blushed slightly and diverted his eyes to the ground. "Anyways, I put my wand in my pocket, though I don't know why. I just…didn't feel like I would need it. I placed both my hands on the door and said something about being the master of the house and demanding entry. I'm not sure about the exact wording or anything. Then I just kind of…pushed my magic through, and the door banged open."

Malfoy was staring at him, his eyes widened the slightest bit, and it was making Harry slightly uncomfortable. "What, Malfoy? Do I have something obscene growing out of my forehead, or are you staring bug-eyed at me for some other reason?"

Malfoy immediately regained his composure. "For your information, Potter, you just cracked through the six strongest locking charms and the four strongest silencing charms that I know how to cast, and they're pretty damn strong. Without your wand. If that's not something to stare about, then I'd like to know what is. What'd you almost break my door down for, anyways? After all, you implied you had _some_ kind of a reason to do so, after all."

Harry found the floor to be incredibly interesting. It was a very deep, lush green, and it looked incredibly comfortable—for a floor, of course. "I—I just came up to apologize. The twins shouldn't have pulled that prank on you, and I'm sorry for it. I'm also sorry I wasn't a better host at including you in the dinner conversation. I should have been more considerate and noticed that you were uncomfortable and not really saying anything. I apologize."

"Stop bloody repeating yourself, Potter. Apologizing doesn't suit you. I don't bloody care about any pranks the Weasley twins pull on me—and even I must give it to them; it's a brilliant invention. And I didn't want to be drawn into a conversation, anyways—if I had wanted to be included, I would have forced my way in. I was merely trying to get through that bloody dinner in one piece…which I seemed to have failed to do, but it certainly was not your fault." Draco wasn't sure why he was forgiving Harry, or even making excuses for him. All those words just came out before he could think about them—and that was never a good thing. Still, it felt like the right thing to say. And he didn't exactly like the idea of Potter pitying him, so he supposed it was all for the best. Even if it did seem to make Potter feel relieved, and maybe even a little grateful.

"Right," said Harry, finally getting the courage to divert his eyes from the carpet. The bedpost really was incredibly fascinating, after all, and it was certainly a safe place to look at. Not a lot a bedpost could do to him. "If that's all settled, then…"

"Yeah," said Malfoy. If Harry wasn't mistaken, there was a bit of discomfort and uncertainty in his voice.

"Right. I'll be going, then. See you in the morning, Malfoy."

Harry closed the door behind him. "That went well," he said sarcastically. Harry sighed and leaned against the door, looking for a moment of support before he collapsed to the ground from shock. "Note to self: don't go into Malfoy's bedroom. Something bad always happens."

Harry pushed himself off the door to Malfoy's bedroom and walked slowly back to his room, as if in a daze. It had been an incredibly long day.

**xxx**

"See you in the morning, Potter," whispered Draco. He then let out a breath of frustration and fell backwards onto his bed. What had gotten into him? First, the other night, almost telling Potter about his dreams. Almost enjoying Potter's company lately, like that phone incident—that had actually been funny, though Draco wouldn't admit it to anyone, and he had actually enjoyed the playful banter that came from Potter. And just now, forgiving Potter without a second thought, and even making excuses for him?

Something was strange about this night, too. He wasn't sure what it was. The strangeness came somewhere between him locking his door and Potter opening the door. Something wasn't right about it…Draco shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. He'd figure it out later, when he had the time and the clarity of mind to actually understand anything. All he could think about right now was Potter. Stupid Potter.

Bloody hell. That was all he had to say. Bloody hell.

**xxx**

A/N: That was Johnny's favorite chapter to write so far, and he'll be pretty hurt if you don't review and tell him what you thought of it.


	7. The Manor

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter Seven: The Manor**

**A/N:** Sorry it's so late. I meant to have it up last week, but then school happened, and I was suddenly incredibly busy. I'll try not to let it happen again, but I'm not making any promises.

**xxx**

Draco had a killer headache when he woke up, and the person banging on the door wasn't making it any better. There was the faint murmur of someone talking from the other side of the door, but Draco's head was pounding too much for him to make out the words. Instead of making more of an effort to understand, Draco rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep. Whoever it was would leave him alone eventually, and seeing as it was probably Potter, it would probably be soon.

Then the person banging on the door opened the door and, in a very loud voice, reminded him what he was supposed to be doing that day. "Draco. I would be very appreciative if you got out of bed and got dressed, seeing as you are the entire reason I am here today."

The voice was loud, but it got its point through. It was Severus, of course—the silky, insinuating, but incredibly loud voice was very distinct. And he was supposed to take Draco to the Manor today to pick up his things—ah, yes. That was it. That was why he was being disturbed at this ungodly hour.

"What time is it?" asked Draco, his voice muffled by the pillow his head was under.

"I am sorry, Draco, but I cannot understand you when you refuse to remove that disgustingly fluffy pillow from your face."

Draco removed the pillow and threw it at Severus, sending him a glare that could have withered anyone _but_ the Potions Master. After all, Draco had inherited the glare from him, and it was very unlikely it would work on the git. Bloody hell. "I asked what time is was. I'll have you know, if you're waking me up at some ungodly hour to do this, I'll murder you, Godfather or not."

"It is almost eleven o'clock, Mr. Malfoy. Even I am not so sadistic as to be here at six in the morning to go on a trip to your house. Eleven is not an ungodly hour, I believe, unless I have been misinformed throughout my entire life."

Draco sneered. Leave it to Snape to be this bloody sarcastic. Still, Draco had slept in a little longer than he had meant to. "Right. I'll be right down. Just give me a moment to get dressed."

"I will be downstairs. I believe Mr. Potter said you would have to make your own breakfast this morning, but he has packed us a small bag of things to take with us, just in case the food at Malfoy Manor is not edible."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Bloody Gryffindor. He really doesn't have to be that bloody thoughtful—it's almost sickening."

"That is what I told him. I expect you downstairs in less than five minutes. If it takes more, I will personally drag you out of this house by your nose, and just think of the stories that would give Mr. Potter to tell."

Severus shut the door behind him in a way that was uniquely Severus, though Draco had never thought he would ever think that. It was not shut in an angry, frustrated, loud way, but the way it was shut was so definite and precise that Draco knew there was no room for argument. Draco almost had to wonder—when he wasn't stalking the halls looking for troublemakers or slaving over horrible Potions essays to grade, did he spend hours practicing all these things just to make sure he could do it right, every time, when he was in public? The billowing robes, the unique sneer and glare combination, the silky-smooth and guilt-infusing tone of voice, the shutting the door—it was all so calculated that it was almost suspicious.

But then again, it was Severus, and Severus was a Slytherin, ex-Death Eater and now Spy, and the guy had a right to be calculated and precise if he wanted to, and not be questioned about it, either.

Four minutes and twenty-six seconds later (according to Severus's mental timer), Draco sauntered down the stairs. His clothes were neatly pressed, every hair on his head was in place, and he had the air of a king among worthless peasants. Such a typical Malfoy, thought Severus.

"Are you ready?" asked Severus. Draco nodded, pulling disdainfully at the muggle clothes he was being forced to wear. Since Potter's floo was not connected to nearly every place in the world as it should be, they had to walk a mile or so from the house before they could Portkey to the Manor—or, well, just outside the Manor, as the wards there were just as strong and cautious as the ones here. Of course, this meant walking through a muggle neighborhood, and Draco wasn't exactly fond of that idea. With his luck lately, some muggle contraption would find a way to kill him in the short walk it would take to get outside of the apparating wards. Damn muggle contraptions.

"Do we really have to walk out there? I mean, in my experience, muggles and their contraptions aren't exactly safe. I don't think it's really a good idea. Can't we floo to, say, your place, and then floo to the Manor? That would even remove the entirety of the walking-bit that we have to do, both ways."

Severus smirked, knowing this was killing Draco. "Yes, Draco, we must. I suggest you get over your ill-disguised and unfounded fears of muggle things so we can get moving."

"I will have you know that I am not afraid of muggle things at all, and if I were, then I would have a bloody good reason. I'm telling you; that phone attacked me."

Severus almost laughed, but refrained from doing so, as Potter was sitting in a chair nearby. Harry was watching the playful banter between Severus and Draco (well, as playful as Severus could get) with a look that was a bit more curious than Severus liked. It would not do for Potter to think that Severus actually laughed—that might mean he was human, and Severus quite liked that he had all his students scared enough to make up stories about his origin, heritage and such. But really—where did they get vampire from?

"Right," said Severus, with as much sarcastic disdain as he could possibly force into his voice—hey, he had to make Potter believe he was still a sarcastic, sneaky, slimy git somehow, didn't he?

Less than a minute later, Draco and Severus were out the door, and another minute later, they had rounded the corner and were out of sight of Potter's house. Then Severus allowed himself to chuckle. "The phone attacked you, Draco? Really, I would expect a better excuse from you."

Draco scowled. "Thank you, Severus, for your opinion. Next time, maybe I'll actually want it."

"Is that your attempt at a comeback? You are out of practice, Mr. Malfoy."

"It comes from living with Potter. A side effect, I think."

"Yes, I could see that," said Severus with a sneer. "The boy has no more brains than a sheep."

"And we all know how smart sheep are. I once heard rocks evolved from them, you know."

Severus allowed another chuckle to escape. "Yes, I know. You've said so before, many times. I believe you once even called it your worst insult—to call someone a sheep."

"Yes, well, people should be offended. You would think that something that could actually breathe and eat and walk would have more common sense than a rock—but the rock definitely takes the cake."

"Takes the cake?" asked Severus, one eyebrow arched.

Draco dropped his head into his hands. "Oh gods. I really _have_ been spending too much time around Potter. He and Granger were attempting to explain muggle phrases to Weasley. Please, Severus. Shoot me now, before it gets worse."

"I am afraid that I would miss my godchild too much. Here, we have arrived outside the wards. We can just duck inside this alley to Portkey."

Severus pulled what appeared to be part of a muggle phone out of his pocket and held it out for Draco to touch. It was the part Potter had talked into, if Draco's memory served him correct. "Dumbledore really does take enjoyment from others' pains, doesn't he?" Draco asked disdainfully, putting a reluctant hand on the phone part.

"You have no idea," said Severus dryly.

A pull at navel and a slightly sick feeling later, Draco was standing in the middle of the road that led to Malfoy Manor. Beautiful green forest surrounded him, and it appeared that the place was alive with nature. Draco closed his eyes and inhaled deeply—the forest had always been his favorite part of Malfoy Manor, whether it was summer or winter. It was always so—distant, secluded, and comforting. Here, school and the pressures of a demanding heritage never bothered him.

The Severus coughed discretely, and Draco's reverie was broken. They walked at a brisk pace, but that wasn't surprising—Draco didn't think Severus walked at anything _but_ a brisk pace.

It wasn't fifteen minutes before Draco turned a bend in the road and saw Malfoy Manor. It stood in all its glory, looking no different than when Draco had left. It sat atop a slight hill, looking down on all around it. It was three stories, and looked like more of a castle than a Manor. The forest came right up to the back porch, but the front was greeted by wide, open spaces that Draco had always loved flying in. The impeccable landscaping had slipped slightly, since Narcissa was not around to constantly check it over and fix little things, but it could only be noticed by the two or three pine cones Draco saw, or a fallen branch (well, stick was a more appropriate name, but Narcissa would have deemed it a branch) under a tree. In any normal household, the garden would have been deemed flawless—but Draco did not live in a normal household, and those few things would have driven Narcissa crazy.

Though the gardens were a definite sign that no one was living in the Manor, Draco hadn't really believed it until he walked through the main doors. It was as if the house was dead—or something of that sort. The sounds echoed strangely, and there were no familiar smells of the house elves cooking, or his mother's incense, or anything that he normally associated with the Manor.

To say the least, it was a strange feeling. Very creepy.

"Get your things, Draco. Call me if you need help. I'll stay here." Severus seemed to notice the atmosphere as well, for he looked around with a little more caution and nervousness than usual. Well, he didn't actually look cautious or nervous in any way—Draco just knew Severus a bit better than most people. No, that was understatement. He probably knew Severus better than anyone had ever or would ever know him. Draco could almost feel the apprehension and discomfort that exuded from Severus—though no one else would have noticed a thing.

Draco raced up the stares to his room on the second floor—the third story was more storage and guestrooms than anything else, the second story was family rooms, a drawing room, and bedrooms, and the first floor was two dining rooms—one formal, one casual—two rooms to entertain guest, and a large living room. Of course, there was also a basement that seemed more like a dungeon, torture chambers and all, and there were multiple secret chambers hidden throughout the house, but that was a given.

His room was the second biggest bedroom in the house, of course, right behind the master suite. It had a high ceiling and large windows on one wall. A dark, rich green—not far off from the one in his room back at Potter's place, but much classier—was the dominant color throughout the room. There was a large bureau next to the bed, a bookshelf on the other side of the bed, a walk-in closet, and a door that led to his bathroom. His room, unlike the rest of the house, felt quite safe. It was just as comfortable as it had always been—his little sanctuary and place of peace. Its familiarity made Draco smile.

Draco enlarged the bottomless suitcase he had brought with him, placed it on the bed, and began pulling things out of his bureau to put inside. Once, he had wondered if anyone needed this many clothes. Then he had remembered how much he liked clothes and loved shopping, and he dismissed the idea. It was very lucky that this suitcase was enchanted to hold each and every thing he put in it, that was for sure. How the hell would he fit all this in his room back at Potter's? He might have to commandeer the closet of another guestroom.

Once done with clothes, Draco moved to the bathroom. He carefully packed his good things—the lavender bath salts, the special shampoo and conditioner, his favorite bathrobe, and everything else he had been missing while he stayed with Potter. Severus really didn't know anything about packing for other people—all he had gotten in the bag Severus had brought for him were five pairs of pants and shirts, sixteen pairs of underwear, a bar of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, and his school books. Really, sixteen pairs? That was a little excessive, even in Draco's mind.

Draco took his Starship—the newest model of broom, which had come out just two months ago—shrunk it, and placed it carefully in his pocket. He didn't trust the bottomless bag to take it safely to Potter's place, and he was far too protective of his broom to risk hurting it. The he moved to the bookshelf. He pulled off a few of his favorite books and placed them gently on the top of the pile of things he had in his bag. Then he pulled off a picture—the only picture in his room—and held it for a moment. He touched the glass gently and smiled softly. Then, as if realizing how sentimental he must look, he wrapped it in some of his clothes and shrank it, placing it in his pocket with his broom.

Draco then took his bag, which was magically charmed to be light and easy to transport (he really didn't see how muggles survived without such things), and headed down to Severus. Time to leave this creepy place—possibly for once and for all.

The trip to Grimmauld Place was conducted much in the same manner as the trip to Malfoy Manor had been—mostly silent, with the occasional banter between Severus and Draco. They arrived at the front door without mishap, which Draco found almost strange—he had half expected something horrible to happen while he had been retrieving his belongings, though he wasn't sure what that could have been.

It was almost dinner, and Potter was already cooking in the kitchen. Severus politely declined to stay with dinner, saying he had a warm meal waiting for him at home. Draco found this comment slightly strange, though he would have declined as well—he just would have used a different excuse. Draco shrugged his musings off, though—it wasn't important what excuse Severus used, really.

Draco returned to the kitchen after putting his bag on his bed to find that Potter was almost done.

Potter was putting the finishing touches on the meal—some kind of meat and pasta, though Draco couldn't be sure what it was—when he sat down.

"I made a little more than usual, just in case you were hungry. I remembered that you didn't have much of a dinner last night, and you skipped breakfast since you woke up late, and I didn't see you and Snape stopping at some muggle diner to have lunch, so I figured it wouldn't hurt."

Draco was slipping, it seemed. He was usually much more adept at hiding his…lack of interest in food, to put it politely. He was always good at hiding at school, but over the summer, he let the skill slip. He didn't have to worry as much when with his parents, anyways—they were never around enough to notice whether or not he was eating properly, and the house elves were too scared to mention anything. Though he had immediately reassumed his caution to appear like he always ate enough when he had first started staying with Potter, he was already slipping, and that was bad—he didn't exactly see Potter a lot, and the virtual lack of human contact outside of Potter didn't do anything to help him keep up appearances. He was getting too comfortable living around Potter, that was for sure.

He would have to be more careful in the future. He would start by actually eating this meal—it wasn't a hard start, either, since he was actually a little hungry. He hadn't had lunch yesterday, either, though Potter had failed to notice that. "What is it you have cooked us, Potter?" he asked disdainfully.

"Macaroni and Cheese and hotdogs. Not exactly gourmet, but definitely good." Seeing the apprehensive look on Draco's face, Potter rolled his eyes. "Really, Malfoy. You could show a little more trust."

"Malfoys do not trust, Potter. Trust gets you killed."

"Right. Whatever you say." Potter turned and loaded a plate of the food for Draco. He placed the—hotdog, was it?—in a piece of folded bread, pulled out a fork, and handed the entire thing to Draco. "Have you never seen a hotdog before?" Draco shook his head. "Poor soul. Put some ketchup or relish or something on the hotdog. The macaroni doesn't need anything, though you can try if you want." Really—poor soul? That was going a little far, Potter. Draco decided not to say anything, though.

Draco watched as Potter prepared his own plate. Bowl, actually. Now why did Potter get a bowl when he got a plate? He seemed to notice Draco's questioning look. "I like eating my Mac, Cheese, and hotdog a little differently. Most people consider it a bit gross, so I gave you the normal way." Draco nodded. Gross was an understatement. Once the pasta-stuff was in the bowl, Potter placed the hotdog on top. Then he took the bottle containing—ketchup?—well, the red stuff, and poured a healthy amount over both items. He took a fork and began eating. Draco watched in near-fascination as Potter would cut a piece of the hotdog off with the edge of his fork, dip it in a little more ketchup, and place it in his mouth. After swallowing, he would then get a bite of the macaroni, making sure it was smothered in that red stuff.

After a few moments, Potter looked up at Draco. "Going to eat, or just stand there watching me?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

"Potter, that has to be the grossest thing I've seen in…a very, very long time. Not quite sure how long, but it's been a while."

"Right. Well, you don't have to eat it this way, you know. I advise mustard and relish on your hotdog, unless you want to put just ketchup on it or something. And eat the macaroni plain—it's good that way. I don't eat it this way every time, you know—unless there are hotdogs around, I never put anything on it."

"You have to be one of the strangest people in the world, Potter. Just letting you know."

"I've heard." Potter kept eating his food, a look of contentment spread across his face.

Once Draco got past the strange way Potter ate his food, he found that the meal was actually quite tasty. Very different, and definitely not gourmet, but it was very satisfying. The best part? He didn't need to hold back, as he hadn't really had anything in the way of food for almost a day, and that dinner with the Weasleys had been cut short, so he hadn't even had very much then. Sometimes, it felt good to eat…then he would gain a few more pounds than was seemly, and that good feeling suddenly left.

**xxx**

Draco sat on his bed, gazing wistfully at the picture he held in his hands. He was glad he had brought it with him—he had considered leaving it, but he missed it too much. After countless minutes studying the scene, Draco carefully placed the picture on the table next to his bed.

He had already unpacked, and it was late. He had wanted to take a bath in the big bath with his newly-recovered bath salts, but Potter had beat him to it, so he was forced to wait. Now he was left with his thoughts until Potter was finished…and frankly, Draco didn't like that idea. His thoughts always led him places he didn't much like. And with that picture there to remind him of all those things he had lost…well, his mind wandered places that it wasn't easy to come back from.

There was one more thing he had retrieved from his room, though now he almost regretted bringing it. Maybe it would have been better if he had left it where it had been, in the secret compartment in the bottom drawer of his bureau. It couldn't hurt him there.

Draco's head jerked up as he heard the distinct sound of a door opening and closing down the hallway, signaling that Potter had vacated the big bathroom. Draco's resolve was set. His thoughts really were dangerous.

Draco reached under his pillow, where he had temporarily stored the item that haunted his thoughts. Draco briefly fingered the dagger, which caught the dim light and reflected it in a deadly way. If inanimate objects had the ability to look evil, this one was the You-Know-Who's twin.

Picking up his bath things and the dagger, Draco headed off to the bathroom. He was least likely to be disturbed there, after all. And the bathroom was such a beautiful setting. Dangerous thoughts, indeed.

**xxx**

**A/N:** Johnny is dangerous when you don't review. Admittedly, not as dangerous as Draco with a dagger, but he definitely scares me. So please review!

Mini disclaimer (or claimer, however you view it): The sheep comment is property of my farm group (see cow on profile, if you haven't already). Feel free to use it to insult your friends any time, but please never claim it as your own. (And it's true, too! Rocks really _did_ evolve from sheep!)


	8. Blood and Water

A/N: **Warning**: this chapter contains descriptive scenes of self-mutilation. Please do not read if you are weak of the stomach, uncomfortable with the idea, or believe it just to not be something you need to read.

**Please forgive me for the delay. You should see my work load. Again, don't expect a speedy update, though I _am_ trying.**

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 8: Blood and Water**

**xxx**

It was Thursday. One day before Potter's birthday, apparently. The Order Meeting, for some reason or another, had been cancelled—Draco didn't really care why. All he cared about was that it meant Severus would not be stopping by this evening.

It was only just after lunch now. Draco had feigned eating something so that Potter would be happy and wouldn't ask questions—that would be bad. Now he was in his room, contemplating where his life had gone astray. Oh wait—it had always been off track, hadn't it?

First his parents. Sure, Narcissa was a very loving parent, but she was only trying to make up for what Lucius did not give. Lucius—now that was a story within itself. He was mean, cruel, dark, brooding, and expected so much of Draco it almost hurt. He didn't think even Potter had to deal with this much stress. Draco was supposed to be proud, dominant, imposing. He was to be a well-known man in society. One that would strike both fear and respect into the hearts of all that met him or even heard his name. He was supposed to be powerful, with a strong grip over the Ministry and the Minister (not that it was hard to control either). And, most of all, Draco was supposed to be a Death Eater. A good one, too. One that was in the center circle of the Dark Lord, so that when the world was ridden of Muggles, he would have power.

Personally, Draco didn't see what was so wrong with Muggles. Sure, they were inferior beings, but that was no reason to kill them all off. Even some of their "inventions" were amusing—though Draco could deal without that damn phone-thingy. Why not use Muggles as tools, instead of as…play toys? Draco shuddered at the idea.

After his parents, there was the Dark Lord, though that tied somewhat in with his parents. He didn't really want to be a Death Eater—not at all. He didn't want to bow and kiss up to that slimy git. He would not kiss the robe of someone. He would not be demeaned in that way. Anyways—and this went back to the Muggle thing—why kill them off? Mudbloods included. Look at Granger—yes, she's insufferable and a know-it-all and she's not exactly pure, but she's smart, and she could do so much for this world most purebloods would never imagine. Why get rid of that?

After the Dark Lord, there was Potter and this insufferable house. Why here? Why now? Why couldn't he just be left alone?

And then there was something else…something he couldn't quite identify, and something he didn't want to look into. If he had examined the feeling, he would find that he did not like himself and who he had become. He didn't like his attitude or his friends, or anything about himself. But Draco didn't want that realization. He would much prefer to do without. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

That was it. The last straw—of the day, at least. Draco drew the dagger out from underneath his pillow. He hadn't found a better place for it as of yet, but it seemed to be doing just fine where it was. Draco gathered his bath things (he didn't trust Potter not to use them), and he headed to the large bathroom down the hall. Potter's door was cracked open, and sounds could be heard from within, but Draco just passed by without a second glance. Like he cared what Potter was doing.

Draco shut the door behind him and turned the lock. He knew Potter wouldn't disturb him, thankfully. Potter wouldn't dare walk in on him in the bathroom.

Draco turned the faucets so warm, almost hot, water was flowing into the tub and put some nice lavender bath salts in. Bubbles began filling the tub to the brim, piling on top of each other in frothy, slightly purple mounds. The sweet smell of lavender began to permeate the room, filling every corner. As it filled, Draco stripped down and arranged his bath things on the side of the tub. By the time he was finished, the water had automatically turned off to prevent overflow (the joys of a wizarding tub), and Draco slipped into the water.

Draco first let the smell, feel, and warmth of the water wash over him. It pushed his bad thoughts out, if only for a moment. The smell filled his nose, and Draco let himself a little smile.

Then reality came crashing back onto him. Draco, his sweet bliss gone, began to wash himself, a scowl crossing his face. Even his favorite shampoo and conditioner couldn't make him forget about the dagger he had brought with him and the meaning that went with it.

The dagger wasn't anything special. It was made of pure silver, handed down through generations of his family, father to oldest son. It had engravings on the hilt, but the clarity of the markings had long since been worn away. All that was left now was the occasional line or, sometimes, a ghostly shape. Draco loved running his fingers over the hilt, caressing the worn grooves. His father had given it to him almost a year ago, when he turned sixteen.

Draco had begun cutting himself soon after that day, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the dagger or because of his pent-up frustrations that were realized in the dagger. He had kept it secret for a long while—only making little cuts, and then healing himself up immediately after. He was still at the school at that time, and he could afford to do magic whenever he wanted. Now the cuts were bigger, and he had to use bandages and hope people like Potter didn't notice anything strange.

Blaise had found out just after Christmas. Draco had returned from break, from his family—his father—and had been more distraught than usual. He was a little careless, and Blaise had walked in on him. The other boy had been shocked, astounded. Of all people, he had not expected Draco Malfoy, so proud and righteous, to be cutting himself. He had immediately tried to help, healing Draco's wounds for him and taking the dagger gently from his hands. Draco remembered the entire evening with stark clarity. That night—it had changed his outlook on life. That night, Blaise had kissed him.

Draco had always known he was gay. It wasn't hard to guess, actually—putting on his mother's makeup, even as a grown boy, had given it away. So much care for his appearance, his taste in decorating. It was the classic, overly-done gay-guy persona that everyone thinks of when thinking of a gay man that Draco had. Granted, he hid it relatively well—he didn't cry or whine constantly, or do his nails (in public), or wave his hand in an overly-gay manner. And he hadn't told anyone. Which would be why he was so surprised when Blaise had kissed him, and even more surprised that he hadn't pulled away immediately and denied everything, claiming that Blaise was messed up in the head.

No, he hadn't done anything like that—rather, he had pulled Blaise closer and deepened the kiss. They didn't tell anyone, and they didn't do much. All their relationship involved was a quick snog and the rare shag. But it was worth it, to Draco. To feel even slightly loved, more than he ever had around his father, was worth everything. They knew it wouldn't work between them, though they had tried at some point. But their personalities clashed terribly, and they decided it would be better if they were only friends…with benefits. And Blaise was great at that.

But all of that was beside the point. After Blaise had discovered Draco cutting himself, he had tried to stop all of it. He also forced Draco to eat more, for along with the self-mutilation story Blaise had drawn out of him that night, Draco had told that damn boy his history of near-starvation that no one knew about. He had tried to help Draco—tried to make Draco's life worth living.

It hadn't worked, of course. Every time Draco saw his father, even got a letter from him, or read about him in the paper, Draco would lapse back into his old routine. He had tried to make an effort for Blaise, but it wasn't enough. Draco's father hurt more than Blaise could deal with.

Which would be where Draco was now. The foam of the bath had died down so that only a few bubbles remained in the corners at the other end of the tub, as if they were trying to get as far away from Draco as they possibly could.

Draco sneered at the bubbles, then returned his attention to what he held in his hands. He ran his thumb over one of the deepest grooves (not that it was very deep) in the knife. He continued the thumb around the hilt, over every groove he could find, and then, finally, to the blade of the knife. He ran his finger as lightly as possible over the edge, but it was sharp, and after a moment, a thin line of blood appeared on his thumb, cutting across his finger diagonally.

Draco took the dagger in his right hand. He stared for a moment at his left arm, looking at all the older scars, and some of the newer ones. The ones from some time last week were still scabbing over, though they were close to being healed. Soon they would be white strips of scar tissue, just like all the other marks on his arms.

Draco, without another thought, slid the knife in a quick motion across his forearm. He watched the wound in fascination as it appeared. The skin did not come apart immediately and gush blood. No, it was much subtler than that. The line Draco cut could not even be seen for a moment. Then, as if in slow motion, the skin slid apart, unknitting itself cell by cell. A think line of red appeared slowly, spreading across Draco's arm. With the first thin line of blood, the skin was pushed apart, and more of the red liquid came pushing through. The line became thicker and thicker as the skin pulled itself apart, and the red line began to swell.

Draco watched raptly as the first line of blood dripped down his arm, swelling so much it overflowed and began to run freely down his white skin. The contrast of red and white was so stark—the red so red, and his white skin so white. It was almost beautiful. So…peaceful. Draco watched as the blood rolled down his arm, coming to pull in his cupped hand for a moment, then overflowing and dripping into the pull.

The blood mixed with the water in little swirls. He watched as the drops separated and swirled around, making the water a pink-and-clear tie-dye. Draco suddenly wanted more—he wanted the water to turn as red as what was on his arm, so he would have that red and white beauty everywhere. The bloody water would go so perfectly with the white décor of the bathroom.

Draco made another cut, and another, and soon his left arm was a swirl of red. White skin couldn't even be seen as the multiple wounds put forth so much blood that the different cuts could not be told one from another. When Draco could no longer tell where to cut, he moved to his other arm. Cut, cut, slash. Draco reveled in the pain it caused—he could feel it, and it wasn't fake. This kind of pain was so real, so hard-core. This feeling couldn't fool anyone, even Draco. It wasn't like the other feelings of pain he had—the ones that his father caused, both mentally and emotionally. The tears, the sadness, the frustration and hate—all those feelings were so confusing. But this pain, it wasn't confusing at all. It was crystal clear—though not literally, of course. Blood is hardly see-through.

Blood and water…water and blood. Mixed together, so beautiful. So wonderful. So relaxing. They were exactly alike in every way except color…mixing together, swirling apart. Combined so that you couldn't tell the difference between the two. They flowed together, forming shapes against the white of the tub, of the entire bathroom—the petals of a red rose on white linens. A robin against a cloud. Flushed lips against pure white skin… The colors were just so beautiful together. They took away the pain inside.

This pain could do nothing to hurt Draco, however ironic that may have seemed. This pain only helped.

When Draco had run out of room on his right arm as well, he considered, if only for a moment, to cut other parts of his body. Then he shook his head and told himself no—he would not mar more of his body than was completely necessary.

Seeing as there was nowhere else on his body to physically relieve the pain he felt inside, Draco leaned back in the tub, letting his blood mix with the water, turning it a deep red. Soon, Draco would have to wrap up his wounds and clean up the area. He knew the cuts were not deep enough to be anything serious, but they could not be left untreated. Other than that, it wouldn't be good for Potter to come in here tomorrow or the next day and find dried blood everywhere, now, would it?

The bubbles at the other end of the tub were gone, Draco noticed. Good.

**xxx**

Harry slipped into the bathroom a little after Malfoy left it. He had forgotten his towel in there earlier, and he wanted to get it in the dirty close pile before he forgot about it. He had already grabbed the towel and turned around when he noticed something strange. There, on the floor and slightly under the table, out of the way, was a small patch of…what?

Harry bent down, now curious to find out what it was. It was already dry and slightly crusty. It was a deep red. Almost the color of…blood? Harry scratched a little of the substance off and lifted it to his nose to smell it. Yes, it was blood. And seeing as he didn't remember cutting himself any time as of late, it had to be Malfoy's. But how old? Not more than two days, as he had just cleaned this bathroom recently. But it could have even come from today.

This was weird. Why was Malfoy bleeding in his bathroom? And why hadn't he had the decency to tell Harry, so that Harry could at least clean it up, if not give Malfoy anything he needed to take care of whatever problem he had?

Harry shrugged. It didn't really matter, did it? He would ask at dinner, just in case. It was probably nothing.

He was beginning to cook dinner when Malfoy entered the kitchen and sat down at the table without saying a word. Harry decided not to acknowledge his presence, as he had decided every night for a while now.

It was strange. They had fallen in a sort of routine, almost comfortable in a way. Malfoy always seemed to arrive at the same time Harry began cooking, and would sit there throughout the process, watching as Harry bustled from place to place, chopping this and stirring that. He had found it slightly uncomfortable at first, and had considered asking Malfoy to leave once or twice, but now he didn't seem to mind it so much. The blonde never said anything—he just watched. There was no harm in that.

Harry had been noticing strange things lately, though. Malfoy didn't eat much. Sure, he appeared to have something at every meal—but Harry could tell. When he said he would make something himself for breakfast or lunch, then there was nothing missing from the refrigerator or the cupboards, it was hard not to notice. And though Malfoy made an effort to at least have every dinner with Harry, Harry could tell the difference between picking at your food and actually eating something. It wasn't like he was blind, and though Malfoy was a pro at disguising how much he ate, Harry could tell. There wasn't a lot else to distract him, and it wasn't hard to notice once you knew what to look for.

Harry shook his head. He would mull over this later. For now, he had a question to ask. "Hey, Malfoy," he said as he pulled out two plates from the cupboard and set one in front of Malfoy.

"Yes?" asked Malfoy disdainfully, as if it was torture to just speak to Harry.

"I was in the bathroom today and I found a little bit of dried blood. Have any idea what it was?" Harry turned to look at Draco and noticed that he was tugging at his sleeves slightly, as if nervous about something, or hiding something. But he didn't seem to be aware of the action, so Harry didn't say anything.

Outside, Malfoy forced himself to remain calm, to seem as if he was trying to remember what Potter was talking about. Inside, Draco was roiling with emotions—had Potter found out? Had he guessed? No, he hadn't. He was too bloody stupid to guess, wasn't he? Anyways, that semi-innocent, very curious, and definitely uninformed look Potter was giving him confirmed it. The boy didn't know, thank god. He wouldn't be able to hide his suspicions from Draco, being a Gryffindor and all—only Slytherins could lie like that. Potter wouldn't be able to fool him. Right?

Draco pulled himself together as soon as he realized what he was doing. He had better start his story before Potter got suspicious or something. If he wasn't already. It was a damn good thing his father had taught him to be outwardly emotionless (or at very least to maintain his composure), or this might be harder. "I slipped and got a nosebleed. Why, are you concerned?" he asked, putting as much mocking sarcasm as he could in his voice. If worse came to worse and his story didn't fool Potter (which, from the look on his face, it had), he would be able to deflect all comments with his scathing sarcasm. The benefits of being Professor Snape's godson and having the opportunity to learn such talents.

Harry nodded thoughtfully and turned back to the counter, where some of the food was. Something about Malfoy attitude was suspicious, though he couldn't pinpoint it. But he wasn't going to push it, for now at least. Malfoy was already being defensive enough, and he didn't want to make the boy so mad that he would storm off, leaving Harry with yet another cooked meal no one would eat. So for now, he'd be unobtrusive and polite. He could always have a conversation (argument) with Malfoy later, if it was completely necessary.

That was when it hit him—the magic (hey—epiphanies don't always come at the most logical times). It had been almost two days, and yet neither he nor Potter had received an owl from the Ministry reprimanding for their use of Magic as underage wizards. This was a mystery that had to be solved.

"Potter. Explain. Why can we use magic?"

Potter looked surprised for a moment, and then looked to be on his guard. "What do you mean, Malfoy?"

"The other night. I warded my room; you broke my spells and barged in. We both used magic, so where are our owls."

Potter ruffled his hair with one hand (really, did he have to do that? It was messy enough as it was) and looked a little sheepish. "Yeah…I've been meaning to tell you…we can use magic in the house. Dumbledore had it warded so the use of magic was undetected—it's mostly for the Order, but it works to cover up _who_ casts the spell as well as what was cast…which means we can use magic underage…"

Draco smirked. Ha! Potter wouldn't be able to hide, now. Pranks, here we come. Draco had never been very proficient at Muggle pranks (though he could be inventive when he wanted to be), and having his wand back meant it suddenly became much easier to make Potter's life...more interesting. "You should have told me sooner, Potter," Draco said, scowling. He had to keep up the Malfoy appearance somehow, and he certainly wasn't going to let Potter know in advance what he was in for. "It was childish not to. I really would have expected more from you—oh wait. I forgot. You're Potter, and it's below you to inform people of such things." That should do it. This made life so much easier…

**xxx**

Harry walked down to the living room later that evening. It was dark and almost foreboding, but Harry didn't feel like turning the lights on quite yet. At first glance, the room was empty, but after a closer inspection, Harry could see the outline of Malfoy standing at the window.

It was very quiet in the room. Harry didn't really want to disturb the quiet, as it was almost peaceful and calming. Harry just watched—looked—at Malfoy, his outline framed by the window. It didn't seem like Malfoy had noticed his presence in the room, and if he had, he wasn't about to acknowledge Harry.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Harry walked forward so he was standing next to Malfoy, his shoulder almost touching the other boy's. He looked out the window with Malfoy, trying to figure out what was so interesting to the boy, but all he could see was rain. It was coming down in torrents, drumming on the roof and the window. Small puddles had already formed in the yard, and rivulets of water were running down the sidewalk and the road and any other space they could be. A flash of lightning came, and seconds later, the thunder could be heard rolling across the land.

Malfoy's eyes had misted over, though not in tears—they were just far off and unseeing, as if caught up in some beauty Harry couldn't see. There was a small smile playing across his lips, Harry was surprised to discover. It was almost as if he liked the rain, or something else Harry couldn't see. Harry liked the look—sure, it wasn't a full-fledged grin, but it was a far cry from the smirk or condescending sneer that Malfoy usually wore. It was a peaceful, content smile, and Harry was almost afraid it would go away at any moment.

Harry regretted having to break the silence. It wasn't oppressive or anything, he just had to know. It was almost regretful to break such a—dare he even think it?—comfortable silence. But he had to know. "Why?"

The only acknowledgement Draco gave was a slow blink of his eyes.

"What is so interesting about the rain?"

Draco shrugged and didn't comment. Harry waited in silence, waiting for any recognition of his question. He was about to ask again, and if that failed, leave, when Draco finally spoke up. "I don't know. I just love it." Harry stopped, caught in his surprise. He hadn't actually expected Draco to respond—sure, he had wanted an answer, but he certainly hadn't expected it. Harry waited for Draco to continue, as there was obviously more to be said. He didn't want to say something that might break this spell they had both fallen under. He wanted to know what made Draco smile. That thought disturbed him at some level, but Harry pushed the feeling away for just a moment—just long enough to find out.

"I've always loved the rain, ever since I was a little kid. It used to echo off the walls of the manor, filling the entire place with its rhythm. My father hated it, of course—he said it interrupted his concentration. But I thought it was so comforting—so steady and calming. I used to love going to sleep to the sound of it, just listening to the rain. It was even better when it was storming outside. I loved watching the grounds being lit up, for only a second. Then there was the crash that was even louder than the rain drumming on our roof. Even better than that is to stand in it—let the cold drops hit your body in a calming pattern, never touching the same spot twice in a row, running down your body in little rivulets and coming to puddle on the ground, to join the other raindrops that had just barely missed you…"

Just then, a bright flash illuminated the outside, lighting up the street and the houses in the neighborhood. Soon after, a crash of thunder rang throughout the area, rolling on for a few moments before dying out. The spell was broken in that moment. Draco stopped talking, and the cloudy look in his eyes evaporated. The small smile lost its charming qualities. Harry was left with Malfoy, king of prats and the most emotionless guy on the face of the planet.

"Forget what you heard, Potter. It's not important." With that, Malfoy stormed out of the room and up the stairs. Harry faintly heard the sound of Malfoy slamming his door shut.

He sighed and turned back to the window, staring back out at the rain. Now that Malfoy had mentioned it, he could almost see what Malfoy meant. The steady rhythm was a bit comforting, if he let himself get lost in it.

Harry let his mind wander as he listened to the rain. What was with Malfoy? That speech…it had been…almost beautiful. It would have been much better if Malfoy hadn't been such a jerk afterwards. But what Harry had seen—that smile, the look—it had been enough to tell that there was a lot more to Malfoy than he'd ever imagined. He had probably seen more of the real Malfoy—not the one that hid behind his pride and anger—in that moment than he had ever seen in his life. It had been so full of emotion, so…nice.

It had been so nice that Harry almost wanted to see more, though he wasn't sure when that would ever happen. But he would try, at least—maybe Malfoy would leave his guard down again one day, and Harry would be able to extract just a little more information from him, see just a little more of who Draco was.

For now, he needed sleep. It was almost his birthday, after all!

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny says that your birthday present to Harry should be a review to me…and even though that doesn't really work out, I think you should take his advice. He is a muse, after all, and muses are all-knowing, all-powerful beings that give wonderful advice. So review!

Johnny would also like to mention, just for safety's sake, that he is NOT a homicidal maniac. He is, in fact, a three-inch-miniature of Johnny Depp. But he commends the person who has the imagination to think so!


	9. Birthday Presents

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 9: Birthday Presents**

**xxx**

Harry rolled over, still half asleep. He knew something was supposed to be happening…but he couldn't quite remember what that was supposed to do. It had something to do with what today was. Harry's eyes fluttered open for a moment, then shut again. It was far too early to be thinking about anything of importance. He'd just go back to sleep. Surely he'd remember it tomorrow morning.

It was about at that moment that something large, slightly smelly, and very loud jumped on his bed.

"Good morning, Sunshine!" shouted this loud, annoying object. "Aren't you going to get up?"

Harry rolled over again and moaned something, though even he could not be sure what was said. "What was that, mate? Didn't catch it. Oh well, it doesn't matter. You're going to get up, aren't you? It _is_ your birthday, after all!"

Oh, yes! That would be the important information he was supposed to remember. Harry's eyes flew open, and he was finally awake. There was Ron, sitting on the lower half of his body and smiling like he had just been kissed for an hour by Hermione (which might have very well been true).

"Bloody hell, what time is it?" asked Harry, still a bit sleepy.

"Almost eleven. What, did you get to bed late last night? You act like you didn't get more than four hours of sleep or something. Malfoy isn't keeping you up, is he?" Ron's voice had suddenly turned slightly dark and very malicious—Harry could just imagine how Ron was already planning on getting Malfoy back for something he didn't even do.

"No, I just didn't sleep that well, I guess. Is everyone here already, or something?"

Ron smiled and shook his head. "Nope, not yet. Mum, myself and 'Mione decided to come over to help you decorate."

"In other words, Mrs. Weasley and 'Mione decided to help me decorate, and you came along so you could be with Hermione, and, if you couldn't be with her all the time, talk about how wonderful she is with me the rest of the time."

Ron at least had the decency to blush before saying, "Well, can you blame me? You'd do the same if you were in love with such a wonderful girl. Oh, sorry. Wonderful bloke, I mean," said Ron, grimacing. Harry had recently informed Hermione and Ron about his sexual preferences, and though Ron had momentarily panicked as thoughts of his best male friend having a crush on him had overwhelmed his brain, both his friends had soon accepted it. "We need to set you up, mate. Really."

Now that was a topic Harry did _not _want to venture to. Best to distract Ron while it was easy. Not that it was ever hard, but some days it was easier than others. "Love? Haven't heard that word used yet. Well, good for you two. Has she said it back?"

Ron's ears, already red in general, became even redder from the blood rushing to his head. "Well, I haven't actually said it to her, yet, either. Waiting for the right time and all."

"That's what you said about asking her out, and look where that got you!" Harry snickered. Ron had been working up the courage for more than a month to ask Hermione out, and she had gotten fed up with it. So, one night, she motioned for Harry to leave (though, of course, he left an extendible ear downstairs so he could hear the conversation). In short, Hermione had told him he should be more of a man, he was a bloody procrastinating coward, he should have asked her out months ago because she would have said yes at any time, and then she kissed him. It had been quite the talk for about a month, and it still made Ron blush.

"Yeah, well…she should have been more patient then. I'll tell her, don't worry. Just not yet."

"Right. Okay. Well, we'd better head downstairs before they decorate my house for me. With my luck, I'd end up with a bunch of pink streamers and some pretty flowers."

Ron laughed and waited for Harry to get dressed before the headed downstairs together. Once down there, they found the party already half set up, though (to Ron's disappointment) there were no pink streamers…yet.

"Hello, Harry!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley as she wrapped him in a warm, friendly hug. "Happy Birthday. Turning seventeen, right?"

Harry blushed and nodded. "Thanks for," he gestured around the room, "all of this. It's nice."

"Nonsense, my dear. We wouldn't have you decorating this entire house all by yourself now, would we? Come, come. We still have some streamers to hang up!" Mrs. Weasley bustled off to get the (rather large) bag of decorations that still needed to be hung.

Hermione, taking the brief moment of reprise, hugged Harry as well. Harry smiled and hugged her back. "Happy Birthday, Harry. It's really good to see you smile. And presents!"

Harry's face faltered for a moment, but Hermione didn't seem to see it. He chose to ignore the smiling-comment, for now at least. He wanted to stay as happy as he could for as long as possible.

Speaking of as happy as he could remain…where was the bane of his existence? Harry peaked in the kitchen, but Malfoy didn't seem to be there. Maybe he had stayed upstairs when he heard Mrs. Weasley here, afraid of embarrassing himself even more. Harry shrugged. It wasn't important. While in the kitchen, Harry grabbed an apple for breakfast, then returned to help Mrs. Weasley with the decorations—not that she needed help. She had set up thousands of birthday parties in her life between all her children and all their friends, and she was only happy to do another one. That, and she wouldn't let Harry help much, saying he needed to relax. "We can't have the birthday boy working now, can we?"

Anyways, Harry was having enough trouble keeping his eye on Ron. Now, though that may not sound like a difficult task, it was. First, he kept getting into the refreshments. Eventually, Mrs. Weasley put a charm on them that wouldn't allow them to be touched until the party.

When the refreshments became off limits, Ron started looking around for Malfoy, seeing if he could get the ferret into trouble. Normally, Harry wouldn't mind and would even try to help Ron out. But this was not exactly a normal situation. Malfoy was intriguing to Harry (for now), and Harry didn't want any troubles or fights. And he most definitely did not want to scare Malfoy off more than he already was (well…scare was a poor choice of word. Malfoy wasn't scared—he just wasn't open. Maybe deter would be a better word to use).

When Ron had not been able to get to Malfoy due to multiple 'coincidental' occurrences, he became bored. And a bored, slightly-hyperactive Ron (from all the sweets he was able to apprehend before Mrs. Weasley protected them, of course) is a dangerous Ron.

It took Harry a little while to notice, and neither Hermione nor Mrs. Weasley was paying enough attention to realize anything. It started with just one streamer. Then, as time went on, it became two, and three, and five, and ten streamers. They were all…pink. Varying shades—neon, pastel, light, dark. Almost every single streamer was pink. Only four or five were yet unchanged by Ron.

After getting over the initial shock, Harry laughed. Well, smiled—it wasn't funny enough to warrant a laugh. His streamers were pink, after all, and that was a bad thing. What if Malfoy walked down here and saw these pink streamers? That could be embarrassing.

Harry waved his wand to return all the streamers back to their normal colors—red and gold, of course, for Gryffindor (and Harry thought he spied a green and silver one in the shadows of a corner, but he didn't mind it too much, so he decided not to investigate further—after all, if he didn't know about it, he couldn't change it, right?).

Ten minutes after returning the streamers to their normal colors, though, Ron changed them to pink again. Thankfully, there was only one shade this time. The problem with it? It was neon. Harry smiled again and returned the streamers to their normal color, looking for Ron. Where was he? Harry wanted to get to him and tell him to stop with the color-changing thing.

Harry didn't have enough time to look for Ron, though, for almost immediately after he turned the streamers back, they changed again. This time, though, it was Neon Pink, pastel green, and a gaudy shade Gryffindor gold. Oh, Merlin—he didn't have any fashion sense to speak of, and even he could tell how horrible a combination that was. It just screamed "kill me now!" or "death to Barbie!"

Harry gave a small noise of frustration and waved his wand again. Where was Mrs. Weasley? He needed to get her to put a permanent charm on these streamers to keep them the way they were. Matter-of-fact, where was anyone? Harry listened for a moment—it sounded like they were in the kitchen.

Harry turned to head in that direction, but the streamers almost immediately changed again. This time, the streamers were tie-dyed in their previous pink, green, and gold colors. And he hadn't thought it could get any worse. Instead of turning them back again, for it would only be more frustrating in the end, Harry headed to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Ron, Hermione and Mrs. Weasley were talking animatedly while cooking. Or rather, they were all talking while Mrs. Weasley was cooking, Hermione was attempting to help but only succeeding to get in the way, and Ron was sitting down watching it all, knowing he would be essentially useless.

"Ron, will you please stop changing the color of the streamers?" asked Harry. "It was funny the first time, but now it's just annoying."

Ron looked confusedly up at Harry. "I haven't done anything, Mate. I changed one streamer earlier, just for kicks, but nothing sense."

"Really? Then why are all the streamers currently tie-dyed in amazingly hideous colors?"

"Don't ask me, Harry?"

"Yeah," said Hermione. "I haven't seen him cast a spell in a while now, and he's been here the entire time."

Harry thought for a moment, and then it hit him. Malfoy.

Now, most people would believe Harry might get a little angry, or at least more frustrated at that realization. Maybe he would storm off and confront Malfoy. He would at least act the same as he had with Ron, his best friend, right? Not Harry. Harry just smiled and shook his head.

It was funny. Malfoy was changing his streamers. He must have heard Harry and Ron talking about it earlier, or something. Whatever it was, though, it was funny. He certainly had a flare for pulling such jokes—those _were_ awfully hideous colors.

Harry wandered back into the living room to see Malfoy sitting in that armchair he liked so much, smiling—though not in a wicked, I'm-better-than-you way. More like in a haha, I-tricked-you way. Now all the streamers were Slytherin Green and Silver, and Malfoy seemed as if he were in his element—sitting in his favorite colors, comfortably sprawled on a chair, and looking at Harry with an incredibly self-satisfied grin.

"Very funny, Malfoy."

"I thought so. Do you like the colors? They look good in this room." Harry looked around, surprised to see the actually didn't look half bad—then again, there were so many colors in this room that anything could look good.

Harry waved his wand and the streamers reverted back to their previous red and gold. "I rather like the way they were, thanks. Though I must commend you—that was a particularly horrifying combination you used before. Tie-dye pink, green and gold? Ouch. It hurt my eyes."

"Yes, that would be why I used it. Horrid, isn't it? They're my aunt's favorite colors, sadly—nearly her entire house is like that." Malfoy stopped himself as soon as he realized what he was saying, and Harry realized it to. He was giving Harry personal information about his family—willingly? Strange. Strange, indeed.

Harry was almost glad for the interruption of Ron into the room. "What are _you_ doing here, ferret?"

"I live here. What excuse do you have, Weasel?" Ron's face reddened, already rising to the challenge of a fight. Harry figured it best to intervene. Soon.

"All right, you two. I'll have no fighting on my birthday. Now, shake and make up." Both Ron and Malfoy whipped around to look at Harry, as if he had grown a third hand out of the top of his head. Oh, this could be funny. "I mean it. As birthday boy, I demand the right to get whatever I want, as long as it is within the abilities of those in the giving to actually give said thing. It won't kill either of you to shake and say 'I'm sorry,' so do it."

Ron, his jaw open slightly, was the first to concede to Harry's request. His head bent down, he walked up to Malfoy and extended his head, mumbling something unintelligible. "I can't hear you, Ron. Say it so birthday-boy can hear you." Ron shot a glare at Harry, and then returned to Malfoy.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy. Now shake and we'll be done with this."

Malfoy stared disdainfully at Ron's hand for a moment, debating on whether or not it would bite him (though it looked decidedly less dangerous than the phone, it could still be dangerous). On the one hand, he could refuse, humiliate Weasley, and get away unscathed. On the other hand, he could be dignified, polite and composed, as a Malfoy should be, and he could make Potter happy. Where did that come from? Oh, who cares. He'd go for dignified.

Malfoy gingerly took Ron's hand and shook it, once. "I apologize," he said, contempt and sarcasm dripping from his voice.

As soon as the words were said, the two practically jumped apart, as if they would die from touching each other for any longer. That was about all he would get, Harry figured. And it was so worth it. Harry was able to hold back his laughter for less than a minute. Then his chuckles filled the entire room. Soon after, Hermione and Mrs. Weasley joined in from the doorway where they had been watching the entire thing.

Ah, the joys of being the birthday-boy.

**xxx**

People began arriving at five o'clock. First, Remus stumbled out of the fire. He looked a little haggard, but definitely much better than he had almost a week ago. He embraced Harry in a warm hug, giving his birthday greetings, but he hadn't said much else before the next person, Tonks, appeared. Then came the rest of the Weasley clan (including Bill and Charlie, which almost surprised Harry), Mad Eye Moody and most other people from the Order, Professor Dumbledore, Dean and Seamus (who had gotten special permission to attend, and had no idea where they were), and just about everyone else Harry could imagine. Even Snape appeared, much to Harry's surprise and slight fear—though he was probably just here to offer Malfoy moral support, or something of that sort. Soon the room was full of laughing, smiling, birthday-wishing people, and Harry could barely keep track of it all.

First, they ate dinner—it was absolutely marvelous. Mrs. Weasley had made a variety of food to please everyone, including steak, pasta, pizza, green beans, corn on the cob and rolls. It was a feast, and everyone enjoyed it. To drink, there was butterbeer and water, and there was ice cream and (of course) cake for desert.

When Mrs. Weasley brought out the cake—a red and gold snitch that flapped it's cake wings and shimmered as if it were flying—everyone sang happy birthday as loudly as was possible. Harry blew out the candles in one fell swoop, drawing a cheer out of all those around.

Then it was present time. Oh, how Harry loved this time. He was amazed by the pile of presents stacked on the kitchen table, on chairs and on countertops, and even a few on the floor. How did he receive this many presents? Bloody hell! He hadn't had this many presents in his life, Christmases and Birthdays combined.

Harry didn't need any encouragement to begin opening his presents. He barely looked at the tags before ripping over the colorful, sometimes gaudy, paper that covered his gifts. He got everything he could possibly imagine—books, magazines, Quidditch supplies (new gloves!), a wizarding camera, and so much more that he couldn't even remember.

Finally, all the presents opened and food eaten, the group of people just mingled. There were conversations, laughing, hugs, and a few more rounds of the birthday song. Harry, for once in his life, felt completely and totally happy. He was surrounded by friends who loved him, it was his birthday, he wasn't with the Dursleys, and all his bad memories were pushed out of his head until further notice. There was no Voldemort plaguing his every thought, no Sirius to instill guilt, no isolation to enforce the loneliness he often felt when in Grimmauld Place. Harry was happy.

Until, that is, someone mentioned Sirius. He wasn't even sure who did it—he just knew he heard Sirius's name being said, and there was a reference to that night and the events that occurred there. It was nothing big—anyone not familiar with the events wouldn't understand anything. But for those who knew what occurred that night, it was as obvious as if Voldemort was walking around in a pink dress, though it wasn't half as funny.

The one mention was enough to bring Harry crashing to the ground. His face fell for only a second—his smile faltered only a moment. But the damage was done. Harry continued smiling and laughing at all the appropriate moments, but he was no longer involved in the conversations, and he didn't really care. When people asked him if anything was wrong, he kept saying, "I'm just tired. It's been a long day, you know. Thanks for asking." But he didn't actually mean those words—he didn't mean any of it.

People soon started to filter out of the house, saying their goodbyes as they went. All came for one more hug and to wish Harry the best, but it all passed in a blur for Harry. He smiled, nodded, and thanked people. He asked if they would visit again soon, if they wanted to stay for just one more drink, or if they needed anything before they went. In short, he played the polite host. But he didn't mean any of it; he wasn't even aware of his actions.

Hermione and Ron were two of the last to go. They saw the sad look in Harry's eyes, but they chose to say nothing—the last time they had said something, it hadn't turned out very well, and they didn't want to ruin Harry's birthday further. They preferred to leave on good terms instead of bad.

Remus was the last to step through the fire for the evening. He gave Harry a small hug, promising to be back soon. Then he was gone, leaving Harry all alone.

Well, as alone as one can be when you share a house with your worst enemy. Harry had completely forgotten about Malfoy in all the chaos, and his stomach fell out as he remembered who he had to share his house with.

Harry turned, tired and nursing a small headache, to meet the eyes of the bane of his existence (barring Voldemort, of course). Green met gray, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw curiosity and—concern? Then the eyes turned steely, and any emotion Harry might have seen was gone.

"You shouldn't let them get to you, you know," said Malfoy calmly, almost civilly, though his eyes were still hard and uncaring.

"What do you know, Malfoy?"

"I know that the moment someone mentioned your Godfather, your evening ceased being enjoyable." Malfoy crossed his arms, as if expecting Harry to deny what he had said.

Instead of falling into Malfoy's trap, Harry went for a different approach, and asked a question that was certainly intriguing. "Why do you care?" His voice wasn't defensive or mean. Just curious, tired, and slightly pleading.

Malfoy shrugged, then scowled. "I don't know, alright? Why don't we get this mess cleaned up and go to bed."

"You mean we, as in, both of us? Not just me, like usual?" Harry was certainly stunned. First Malfoy shows concern and offers advice. Then he doesn't deny said concern. Then he offers to help. Tonight was full of surprises.

"You want to get to bed earlier, don't you? Don't complain, or I'll leave. Oh, and your birthday present is on the table."

Now Harry was shocked—not just stunned, but shocked. His jaw dropped slightly, and his eyes bugged out. "What do you mean, present?"

Draco scowled, obviously uncomfortable with this topic of conversation. His eyes were focused off to the side, and one hand began tugging at his sleeve again. "You didn't think I'd not get you a present when it's your birthday and all, did you? I don't like you, but I'm not mean, cruel or stupid. Nor am I impolite. If you have a problem with accepting a birthday present, think of it as a thank-you present for letting me stay here while things get sorted out back home. Or, if that shocks you, too, you could think of it as a thanks-for-not-beating-me-up-while-I'm-in-your-house present."

"Thanks, Malfoy."

"Yeah," said Draco, almost too quiet to be heard. "No problem."

Harry gingerly took the present, almost afraid it would disappear in his hands. He slowly unwrapped the paper—gold and silver. Very pretty. Harry pulled away the remnants of the paper and turned the present over in his hands to find a—telephone book?

"It's for that bloody phone thing that attacked me," said Draco sheepishly.

Harry laughed. Flat out, gut-wrenching, from the heart laughed. His bad mood suddenly lifted, a smile crossed his face. "Thanks, Malfoy. It was very…thoughtful of you."

"There's more, you know," said Draco, still nervously looking at the floor.

"What more could you give me? I think this is better than all the other presents I got today. It was definitely thought out—much more so than most of the presents I got today." Harry beamed at Draco—and was almost surprised to note they were first, having a civil conversation, and second, enjoying each other's company. Even Draco seemed to have relaxed now, though he was far from smiling or laughing or otherwise showing he was enjoying himself.

"Well, open it."

Inside the pages, there was a small photograph of his parents standing in front of the lake at Hogwarts. Like all wizarding photos, they were smiling and waving at him. It must have been just after they'd first gotten together, for they were both young. Every time they looked at each other, they blushed and giggled. Behind their backs, Harry could see they were sheepishly holding hands.

"Snape said he might have a box of photos lying around his house, and when I asked him if he might have a picture of your parents, he said he'd been looking for a good reason to get rid of it for years now. Said something about the only reason he kept it was because he felt bad for what happened to your parents—or something like that. Think of it as a present from both of us, if you will. He gives his best wishes, though he said he didn't want to be around when you opened your present."

"Malfoy, you're rambling. Thank you, so much." Tears were coming to his eyes, and he brushed them back forcefully. He did _not_ want to cry in front of Malfoy.

"Well, I noticed you didn't have many pictures of your family around your house. I know my parents were in school around the same time as your parents, so if I go back to the Manor, I'll bring back some old photo albums for you to look through. I know our parents weren't exactly…close…but you might find a stray picture here and there that mum kept around for old time's sake. It's not like I need the pictures, anyways, and—"

"You're rambling again, Malfoy. Thank you. You're right; I don't have many pictures of my parents, and I don't know much about them. I have an old photo album Hagrid gave me once, and it's very special to me. I enjoy getting more pictures so much, 'cause every one gives me a glimpse into their lives. You did more for me tonight than you could imagine."

"Great," said Malfoy sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Now Potter actually _likes_ me and is _grateful._ Just wonderful. What will the school say when we get back?"

Harry shrugged, laughing. "I don't know, Malfoy. Why don't we just keep this secret for now, okay?"

"Fine with me, Potter. Let's get to work before its midnight, okay? Then it won't be your birthday anymore and I won't feel obligated to help you clean."

Harry laughed, and the two set to work. The cleaning was done quickly with the help of magic, and the almost-friends parted company to go to bed. Harry fell, exhausted, into bed. It had been a long, eventful day. And it was a day of surprises. Who would have guessed that Malfoy could ever pull him out of his funk? Harry drifted to sleep with a small smile upon his lips, his fingers curled lightly around the phonebook he had received for his birthday, and, on top of it, the picture of his parents.

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny says that any chapter that fluffy and mushy and cute deserves a review rebuking the author for being so sentimental. He wishes to say he tried to dissuade said author from writing such a sweet scene, but to no avail. So you should all review and tell him he's right and, as a result, boost his over-inflated ego.


	10. Helpful Hands

Author's Note: I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter. Please, forgive me; I am but a humble high-school senior taking three AP courses and one honors course, plus 3 other classes (though they aren't as hard); not only that, but I tend to sign up to do far more than I actually have time for…and…well, I don't get a lot of time to write. Sorry!

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT **

**Chapter 10: Helpful Hands**

**xxx**

It was a week after Potter's birthday, and not much had happened. The Weasleys had come over again for their infuriating dinner, though Draco had stayed well out of the way this time. Severus had visited on Monday, and Dumbledore had visited the following day. Then Granger the next day, then the Order yesterday…and now Draco was, once again, alone in the house (with Potter) for the rest of the weekend. Until the Weasleys came and broke the monotony of the weekend yet again with yet another of their overly loud and incredibly pointless and annoying dinners.

Draco was brooding now, as was fit of a mentally-troubled teenager alone in the house with his arch-nemesis (for Draco refused to think of Potter otherwise, despite opposing arguments and events). Speaking…well, thinking of those events…

Staying with Potter had become almost…bearable. Sometimes even enjoyable. Of course, Potter still acted like a bloody git most of the time, and he was often very annoying. Especially when he was trying to watch Draco without being noticed—he was absolutely horrible at it. Draco found himself curious as to Potter's attentions—for why would the Gryffindor be interested in his eating habits (not a good subject) or how he sat in a chair (a far safer subject). Other than that habit though, all other annoyances were very minor and very tolerable.

Matter-of-fact, some things about Potter were just plain nice. Like how Potter would willingly endure hours of silence in the same room as Draco. Most people would interrupt the silence at some point in time, which was entirely intolerable (why interrupt a good silent moment?), but Potter just maintained the semi-comfortable silence, making Draco very happy in the process. Being around Potter in those times had taken a very surprising turn for the…better? How strange.

But off the Potter subject. That wasn't important at the moment. He hated Potter, as was the dictum of his father and Lord Voldemort. He didn't side with Potter. He sided with family and honor. He had absolutely no care for Potter's welfare, unless it had to do with his own advancement in life. Right?

These conflicting emotions would be the cause for Draco's current situation, which he was pondering on in the bathtub. The silver knife glinted malignantly (if inanimate objects could be malignant) in his hands as he turned the blade over and over. He hadn't yet done anything, but he was very, very close. Damn Potter and the confusing emotions he brought. Damn the whole world for being against him. Damn his parents for…well, damn Lucius for being a bastard. An asshole. A complete mother-fu—

Ah, there was the anger he was searching for to initiate the first slice. Draco easily made the first cut, barely registering the pain. All that mattered was the release it gave him, in a sense, of his anger. He let all his pain, frustration, hate and insecurities flow out of him with that first droplet of blood. As the slashes, and therefore drops of blood, continued, he poured all his emotions into them—happiness, pain, disgust, superiority, and, most importantly, love and friendship. This left him devoid of emotions, thoughts, feelings…devoid of everything that could potentially hurt him.

Which would be why, when the door to the bathroom opened and Draco remembered he had forgotten to lock it, he found he did not care. This was also why when Potter, one of those confusing emotions that forced him into this position, saw him covered in his own blood, naked in the tub, Draco found he couldn't give a shit.

Potter dropped whatever he had been carrying, which created a cacophony of noise when it crashed to the floor, but Draco could truthfully say he did not notice. He barely registered the widening of Potter's eyes, or the slight jaw drop, the careful, "Malfoy, what are you doing?" He only just saw Potter rushing to his side, concern written all over his face, or the careful hand that gently pulled the blood-covered knife out of his hands.

That would be about the time he passed out. Of course, he woke just moments later as Potter shoved multiple potions down his throat. From the looks, tastes and smells Draco could just barely comprehended, Draco believed the potions to be a Pepper-up potion to waken him, a Blood-clot potion to stop the blood flow, and a Vitals potion to check for any serious injuries.

And he had been having such a wonderful evening. Suddenly, all the pain he had blocked from his mind came rushing back to him, intensified tenfold as a result of his hyper-awareness from the Pepper-up potion. Goddamn, did Potter not know to use that potion in _careful_ doses according to the individual? Apparently not, it seemed, for every nerve in his body seemed to be standing on end.

After a moment of excruciating pain, the most intense effects of the cursed Potion wore off, leaving Draco only slightly less numb than he had been a few minutes before, a bit more coherent, and a lot more pissed.

"Bloody hell, Potter! What was that for?"

Potter was immediately on the defensive, so sure he was right. "Yes, you're welcome for saving your life, Malfoy. Bloody hell, what do you think it was for? You were bleeding your life out right in front of me, and _you_ sure as hell weren't doing anything about it."

"Maybe that's because I didn't _want_ to do something about it. Maybe it was on _purpose_. You ever think of that, Potter? Oh wait, I'm sorry. You only think of yourself."

"Yes, Malfoy. I am so bloody obsessed with myself, and I only saw this as another opportunity to further my fame. As a bonus, it leaves you in my debt and gives me another notch on my stick for the lives I've saved."

Draco suddenly decided that all he might have felt about this stay being tolerable, maybe bearable, and possibly even likable, were complete bull. This was _far_ from tolerable, let alone bearable, and it was most certainly not likable. "Well at least I know I'll boost your ego just a little more—you just saved my arch-nemesis, discounting the Dark Lord, from sure death. Except I wasn't dying. See this? This is me healing myself, as I am perfectly capable of doing."

Well, he _had_ been perfectly capable of doing so. Draco was able to heal the least serious of all the cuts—those that had been small, inconsequential slashes of no importance. He was able to partially close the more moderately sized ones, which ceased their threat to his life. But the two biggest ones he had…he couldn't even begin to shut those wounds. He wasn't sure why, either—he had always been able to shut the wounds on his own. But these two…well, they just wouldn't go away. Not even a tingle of them starting to close. Bloody hell.

"Yeah, sure, Malfoy. Perfectly capable. Which, of course, is why you still have two gaping wounds in your arm that will begin bleeding as soon as the Blood-clot potion wears off, as well as numerous moderately healed ones. I shouldn't have worried at all, should I have?"

Draco scowled. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be humiliated in front of Potter. He wasn't supposed to feel incompetent, or, Merlin forbid, even in need of help.

"Well what do you suggest I do, then, Potter?" Draco's voice was dangerously on the edge of showing the emotion he was currently feeling—pain, frustration, desperation and, for some reason unknown to him, guilt. Now where the hell did that feeling come from?

Potter, to his credit, seemed to finally catch on to the delicacy of this situation. What was more surprising, Potter even seemed to realize Draco might be on the verge of going over the edge. "Let me help," he said, in the gentlest voice he could muster. Harry gently took Draco's hand, trying to convey all the comfort and assurance he could—and it must have worked, for Draco nodded, albeit hesitantly.

With a wave of his wand, Potter had summoned bandages from some unknown location in the house—most likely the same place he had gotten the Potions from. Along with the bandages came flying salves, bottles, rags, and a dish of clean, warm water. Not bloody water. The seriousness of this situation was slowly becoming known to Draco, who suddenly noticed the contrast between the bloody water and the clean.

With another wave of his wand, Potter summoned a towel from a cabinet under the sink. Draco stepped into it as Potter politely looked away. Potter proceeded to banish the water in the tub, and Draco suddenly felt at a loss, though he couldn't tell for what reason—it was almost as if part of him had vanished with that water, as if it were manifested in his blood that had mixed with it. Draco shook of the eerie feeling and focused on what was happening around him.

Potter ushered him to the toilet, where Draco gingerly sat down. He was very aware that Potter was fully clothed, where as he was situated in merely a towel, but he didn't say anything about it, for that would only further his embarrassment. To say something would be to acknowledge the situation, which would make it real and obvious, and that was something Draco didn't want. Anyways, from the blush that had sneaked its way onto Potter's face, it seemed he had realized the situation as well, and it most certainly did not need Draco's clarification.

Draco pulled his mind away from the slightly disturbing thought and focused on Potter's actions. The boy methodically laid out all the materials he would use. Draco noticed that he bit his bottom lip, worrying it slightly, as he checked the items in front of him for anything he might be missing, his eyes flickering over every item at least twice.

First, Potter picked up the cloth. He dipped it into the water, then wrung out any excess water. He gently began to clean the skin, paying special attention to be careful around the cuts. He carefully removed all remaining blood from Draco's skin so as to see better when working…and Draco was almost surprised at the tenderness with which Potter worked. He put more care, more concern, into his hands and movements than Draco had ever seen before. Potter didn't say a word as he worked, which Draco was grateful for. Of all things, he did not want to talk at the moment.

Harry's hands were gentle as they rubbed the salve (which smelled slightly putrid, though Draco wasn't about to comment) over the skin, paying attention to the old, almost faded scars, as well as the newer ones that came from Draco's recent self-healing. Draco found himself absorbed in Harry's hands, which worked quickly, methodically and, most importantly, carefully. They were so long and nimble—so precise in their every movement. And they were so careful…

Then Harry picked up one of the bandages. He worked slowly, making sure not to hurt Draco as the process went on. Draco could barely feel Harry's fingers as they brushed over the open wounds, around the skin. A shiver went down his spine, and Draco found himself almost enjoying the light, caring touches. They were probably the most careful, concerned touches he had received in a year, at least, and they were absolutely wonderful…but they were from Potter, so they were supposed to be bad, right?

Finally, Harry finished. He tied the last knot as gently as he had the first, and Draco almost didn't realize the entire ordeal was over. As a final touch, Harry cast a cleanliness spell that would keep out any infectious bacteria for the time being.

The two sat in silence for a moment, contemplating all that had happened. Draco was the first to speak, though he knew he should have waited for Harry to say something. "Thanks," he said quietly, tentatively, as if something in the air would break at any moment, for any reason—something yet unidentified, but very fragile and possibly even important.

"Yeah," answered Harry in the same tone of voice, as if he was just as aware of the fragile thing that had come between them. "Anytime."

The effects of the Pepper-up potion had nearly worn off already; it was not meant to be a long-lasting potion. It was merely to give you a small boost of energy, and the rest you had to do on your own. Draco was becoming sleepy, and that wasn't a good thing. He felt as if he was going to fall asleep right here, on the toilet in the bathroom he had just been cutting himself in.

Harry seemed to notice something, for he said, "We should get you to bed. I can clean up here." Draco nodded, and he didn't refuse as Harry put a supportive arm around Draco's waist. It took all of Draco's remaining energy to get to his bed, even with the help from Harry. He didn't even register hitting the bed as he drifted off into sweet, blissful unconsciousness. Boy, this would be a mess when he woke up. But right now, he didn't care.

**xxx**

The next morning, Draco woke up as if in a haze. Something on his arm itched irritably, though he didn't yet have the energy to discover or remember what it was. He didn't even have the energy to open his eyes.

The haze that permeated Draco's brain slowly lifted as sunlight drifted through the window and he began to wake. Images came back to him slowly—bloody water, Potter in the doorway, Potter's face, Potter's hands…his hands…oh shit.

Draco sat up, looking at his arms and hoping it had all been a dream. Alas, it hadn't. Draco looked horrifyingly at the bandages that were wrapped up both his arms, right past his elbow. That meant—it hadn't been a dream, and Potter had walked in on him last night. Which meant Potter knew his secret. This wasn't good. Draco hid his face in his hand, dreading going downstairs.

Finally he decided it was immature to wait in his bed any longer—it would only mean he was avoiding the situation, and Malfoys never avoided anything. They always met problems head on, with calm and poise, never wavering for a moment.

Draco was just pushing himself out of bed when a tentative knock came on the door. He froze, not wanting to know who was behind the door, even though it was obvious. He looked down quickly to realize he was still naked—the towel had fallen off while he had been sleeping. "One moment," he said. He hurriedly pulled on the nearest pair of pants available—Muggle jeans, he realized, grimacing. Once decently covered, he opened the door, dreading every second.

There Potter stood, tray full of breakfast in hand, a slightly nervous and concerned look on his face. "Morning," he said quietly, as if afraid to raise his voice too high.

"What do you want?" Draco tried to be icy—he tried to dissuade Potter, tried to make him turn around and retreat back to the kitchen or his bedroom or wherever he had come from.

"I brought you breakfast." Well, duh. Potter seemed to realize the obviousness of his statement, and continued. "I thought you might be hungry, and I didn't think you should be moving around so soon. You lost a lot of blood last night, and I don't have a blood replenishing potion, so—"

"Potter, you're rambling."

"Right," said Potter, grinning sheepishly. The smile was quickly erased though, as he realized whom he was talking to. "How do you feel?" he asked, concern permeating his voice.

Draco looked down, his confidence and haughty attitude suddenly gone. "All right, I guess," he said quietly. He almost offered his gratitude, but figured that such a statement may shock Potter too much, which would cause Potter to faint in his doorway, and then he would be left with a mess and a collapsed body in his doorway—and he would have to admit that he actually had feelings, which was out of the question.

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued before Draco gestured for Potter to come inside. He wasn't sure why—he didn't even want Potter in his room, for Merlin's sake—but he did anyways. Potter followed apprehensively. He set the tray on Draco's bedside—oatmeal, an apple, and a cup of steaming tea.

"You should eat. It'll help you regain your strength," said Harry quietly, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

Draco scowled and picked up the apple, taking a bite out of it. Then, realizing how hungry he was, he sat down and pulled the tray closer. Harry watched, silent, as Draco finished his meal. Finally, Draco took the cup of tea, cast a re-warming charm on it, and sat back in the lush pillows of his bed.

Harry waved his wand and another cup of tea appeared in his hands. They sat on the bed, staring at each other, daring the other to say something first.

Draco caved, though he wasn't sure why, and spoke first. "Where did you learn to take care of wounds?" he asked quietly, not quite meeting Harry's eyes.

Harry shrugged, deciding it was best not to meet Draco's eyes as well. "When I was young, I was always getting hurt. I didn't exactly have magic to fix everything, so I learned to treat my own wounds."

Draco didn't say anything—what could he say? Much better to be remembered as silent and stoic rather than as the person who blurted everything out—much like Weasley did.

After a long silence in which neither boy met the other's eyes, Harry ventured the next question. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asked.

Draco nodded, eyes clouding over slightly. "Yeah. It's happened before. I know I can recover from it." He was quiet. There was something that needed to be said; he just didn't want to say it. But Malfoys never shirked something they should do. "Thanks," he said, almost too quiet to be heard.

"No problem," said Harry, just as quietly. "I need to look at the wounds later, but the bandages should be okay for now. Let me know if they get uncomfortable." Then, looking up, eyes probing, he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Draco thought for a moment. That was an interesting question. Did he? The answer was obvious: yes, he really did. It wasn't a question of whether or not he trusted Potter, because he did. He wanted to pour his heart out to someone—more specifically, he wanted to pour his heart out to Harry. He wanted to unload all his pain, guilt and confusion onto the person that had, less than twenty-four hours ago, probably saved his life. The person that had shown more care in those few moments than his parents ever had in their lives, combined—and possibly more care than Blaise ever had.

The real question was, should he? That answer was, regrettably, no. He couldn't tell Potter, bloody Boy-Who-Lived, why he wanted to hide for all eternity. Why he was so afraid that his parents would be released from Azkaban, or that the Dark Lord would find him. He couldn't tell Potter that his family wouldn't exactly have won "Most Loving Family" in a contest. He couldn't tell Potter he was afraid of becoming a Death Eater, that he didn't even want to in the first place—among other things, that would be admitting his family's allegiances, and though they were probably obvious to the outside world, he didn't want to tell them to anyone, especially not Potter, for more than one reason.

Draco shook his head slowly. "No," he said quietly. "I can't talk about it. I want to, but I can't." Draco curled into a ball, not even caring that Potter was seeing how weak, how hurt he was right now.

Harry nodded his head, his eyes sad. "I understand. I'm here if you need me, though." There was a long silence, and then Harry stood up, touching Draco on the shoulder lightly. "Since you had such a late breakfast, we'll have a late lunch. I expect you in the kitchens promptly at two thirty—it's about ten o'clock now." Draco was about to protest, but Harry continued. "You are far too light, Draco. It took no effort to carry you here last night."

Draco rolled his eyes. Merlin, that boy sounded like an overly-concerned mother hen. Really, he had gotten along well enough for this long. There must be a conspiracy out there to make him eat more—first Blaise, now Potter. Next thing you know, the Weasel would be cutting his steak into small pieces for him, hand-feeding him porridge, and cutting the crust off his sandwiches. Oh, that would be a sight to see.

**xxx**

Despite his annoyances with Potter's newfound concern for his health and his reluctance to go downstairs and interact further with the godforsaken boy, Draco was downstairs at two twenty-eight—two minutes early. Potter already had a sickeningly healthy (and far too large) lunch laid out. Potter hovered around, watching to make sure Draco ate every bite of his lunch, and then extracting a promise from him to make sure he wouldn't get rid of it later in ways that Potter would not elaborate on.

Listening to Potter's annoyingly cheerful chatter was even worse than eating the lunch. Really, did he have to smile that much? It was as if he never turned off. He chatted amiably about cleaning the house, preparing for the Weasleys, what Mrs. Weasley had said she would cook that Sunday, the latest book Granger had brought him, and everything in-between.

Draco followed Potter with his eyes as the crazed Gryffindor bustled around the room, cleaning this and that like an insane housewife. The image of Potter in a pink apron, duster in hand, was just amusing enough to make Draco smile slightly as he took another bite of his sandwich; luckily, Potter had is back turned, for he wasn't sure he could hide the smile…even from the maniac in front of him.

There was something comforting about Potter's over-cheeriness. Yes, it was annoying and almost painful to listen to…but it was Potter, and for some reason, that made it okay. At least he was consistent about being annoyingly cheerful and happy. To know that Potter cared…that made things more bearable. If only by a little. But really—did he have to be _that_ cheery?

On his way back to his room after lunch, Draco spied something that almost surprised him—the picture. Potter's parents stood in the picture, waving happily and smiling congenially out of their new frame. When he thought about it, Potter really did look like his parents…he had his father's disgustingly messy hair, and his mother's vivid green eyes. It was remarkable how similar he was, actually.

Draco shook his head, smiling, and continued down the hallway to his room. It was nice, comforting, to know Potter had liked his present that much—though he would never tell anyone that.

**xxx**

A/N: Sorry for its shortness, but there's nothing else to be said for this chapter. To let you know, Johnny will hover around _you_ just as annoyingly as Potter, if not more so, until you review for the story…and Johnny can be pretty annoying when he hovers, so I suggest acting quickly. Thanks!


	11. Shopping Problem

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 11: A New World**

**xxx**

It was the day after his heartwarming almost-chat with Potter. Draco was staring at the ceiling, at the one spot on his ceiling right above his bed. He was bored. It was only ten in the morning, and he was already bored. He had finished all his homework a few days ago (did Potter _ever_ work on homework?), including the dreaded Charms homework…and though the Charms homework could probably be better than it was, he wasn't messing with it again for a million Galleons.

So that left Draco undeniably bored. He was in the middle of the Muggle suburbs. He was alone in a house with Harry bloody Potter. No one would be coming until sometime tomorrow afternoon. What was there to do?

Draco mused for what felt like hours until an idea came to him. Granted, it was a little uncouth, and definitely not something he had ever seen himself doing, with Potter of all people. Now…all he had to do was convince Potter it was a good idea, that no one would catch them…that they could get away with all their mischievous activities.

Draco snuck downstairs around ten thirty to find Potter ensconced in a chair, reading one of the books Granger had brought to him.

Potter looked up for a moment, then returned to his book. "I was wondering when you'd be down," he said conversationally. "Breakfast is on the table." Draco rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen to find eggs and bacon waiting for him. From the living room, he heard Potter continue, "And don't think about throwing it away, Malfoy. I won't have you starving in my house."

Draco picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled on it before yelling back, "I've lived this way my entire life, Potter, and it's worked this long. Anyways, it's none of your bloody business whether or not I eat well." Draco tried to infuse all the hate he could manage into his voice, but it just wasn't working. He didn't understand why, but for some reason, he couldn't muster the energy to hate Potter lately.

Draco shook his head and started on another piece of bacon. "Potter, are you bored?" he asked curiously, stepping into the doorway of the living room. His eyes bored into Potter, trying to see whether or not something was there.

Potter looked up from his book just long enough to see Draco's posture, and was immediately on guard. It was predatory—as if Draco was hunting him, and he didn't like it. Not one bit. "Finish your food. I bet you haven't touched your eggs."

Draco scowled. Dammit! Why did he have to be so…so…smart? No, he wasn't smart. Just bloody annoying. "Answer my question, Potter. Are you bored?"

"A little, yeah. But this book's just getting to its interesting part, so I probably won't be bored for very long."

Draco mused, thoughtfully chewing on his bacon. "Why don't we do something? I have an idea…"

Harry did not like where this was going. The look in Malfoy's eyes was becoming more and more predatory as he spoke, and Malfoy's idea of entertainment was not always the same as Harry's. "What would you like to do, Malfoy?" Harry asked, feigning disinterest as he pretended to read his book.

Draco stalked up to the chair and leaned over Harry, pushing the book out of the way and catching Harry's eyes. His steely gray eyes glinted mischievously, causing Harry to gulp and shrink further into his chair. He wasn't certain what he expected next, but it certainly wasn't what came out of Draco's mouth: "Let's go shopping!"

Harry started, closed his eyes, shook his head, and stared at Draco. "What?" he asked, surprised.

"Shopping!" Draco said gleefully. He stood up, clasping his hands together enthusiastically. "It could be entertaining, at least. There's a Muggle shopping district nearby, too; I asked Severus."

"You lost me," said Harry in disbelief.

Draco scoffed, as if Harry was stupid. "How could I lose you? It's not exactly a hard concept to grasp. I have money and fashion sense, but I don't know Muggles very well. You have money and you know Muggles, but you have absolutely no fashion sense. Really, plaid flannel shirts are not as sexy as you must think they are if you wear them that much."

"Right. What kind of money do you have? Wizarding money? Because that's not going to work."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I at least know that much. My father started a Muggle banking account for me when I was twelve. He said it was just in case I was stranded in the Muggle world for some reason—I think it was just so he could hide from the Ministry how much money he had, since there are so many more muggle banks than wizarding banks. Still, I have a checkbook and everything."

Harry blinked his eyes slowly. Malfoy had a muggle checkbook? You learned something knew every day, Harry knew, but this was a little much.

"And how do you propose we get to this shopping district?" Harry asked.

"Walk, of course. Severus said it's only a little ways—probably about a mile and a half, two miles."

"By close by, Severus meant about ten miles."

Draco's face fell for a moment, but then brightened again. "I heard Granger and you talking about some muggle transportation service or another—"Ticksy," I think you called it. We could use that."

"Right, but it's a Taxi. And how do you propose we get the taxi?"

"You can call for one on your damned phone, can't you?"

Damn. Harry was running out of arguments. "We can't go out of the house, and you know it, Malfoy. Dumbledore told us not to leave."

Draco scoffed. "Nonsense. First off, Dumbledore and them will never know we're gone—they never check on us, and you know it. The next person to check up on us will be Mrs. Weasley when she comes to start making dinner tomorrow afternoon. They won't even miss us, and if we're smart, they won't ever find out."

"It's dangerous."

"My parents are in Azkaban for their sins. Voldemort has no idea where you are, and one afternoon out won't give it away. Voldemort won't ever know you left safety."

Harry was at a loss. Malfoy had all the bases covered, so to speak, and it seemed he would not stop until he was satisfied and out of the house. Harry had to admit, it was getting a bit stuffy in this house—even though Malfoy was here, it was still very lonely, and usually quite boring. The book wasn't really that interesting, anyways—that had been a lie to get Malfoy off his back, which hadn't worked anyways.

Harry sighed, his shoulders sagging. "What will we be doing, anyways?"

"Why, shopping, of course!" Malfoy said gleefully. Harry shook his head. He was going to regret this later, he knew it.

**xxx**

Half an hour later, Harry and Draco were waiting outside for a taxicab. They were both decently dressed for the Muggle world; Harry had told Draco he could not wear his gray leather pants in public, and Draco had warned Harry against another flannel shirt.

"I will _not_ be seen in public with you, whether Muggles or Wizards, if you wear that shirt."

"But I like this shirt. It's comfortable."

"And it's hideous, to boot. We're going shopping—people who are shopping do not wear their worst clothes, because then the store people don't take them serious. We're shopping, and you're not wearing that. Anyways, what would people think if they saw a Malfoy with some guy in a flannel shirt?"

"They'd think, 'Oh look! A Malfoy! We better run before he sees us and tortures us, just as he's obviously torturing the poor guy with him." Harry changed his shirt three times before Draco accepted what he was wearing.

The cab arrived soon after it had been called, thankfully, or Harry was afraid Draco would change his mind about the shirt yet again and force him to change once more. It had been quite amusing to call the cab, actually—Draco had watched on in fascination as Harry talked into the receiver, and had questioned him thoroughly about all the things he had done afterwards. "Why did you have to punch all those numbers? You mean the phone didn't automatically know whom to call? How do Muggles survive?"

Harry answered as many questions as he could as they walked to the corner, where the taxi would pick them up. Since Grimmauld Place wasn't exactly visible to the average person and it would look odd if they appeared out of an empty space between two houses, they had had to arrange a meeting spot. Luckily, it wasn't hard to walk a hundred yards down the street.

Draco stared in awe at the taxi. He was intelligent enough not to rattle off questions where the taxi driver could hear him and wonder why a teenage boy knew absolutely nothing about cars or taxi services or stoplights. But Harry could tell he was stalking up on the questions. He sighed and enjoyed the quiet as best he could—this had the potential to be a very long day. Why had he agreed to this anyways? Oh, yes. Malfoy was an unrelenting arse.

Finally, the taxi stopped at the shopping district. There was a mall nearby, a bookstore, a few restaurants, an appliance shop, and a couple other stores. Draco stared at all of it in awe and was nearly hit by a car as a result.

"Why did the—what is it, car?—stop at that light-thingy?"

"It's a traffic light. Cars stop on red, and go on green. It helps ensure there are no accidents." At Draco's inquisitive glance, Harry explained. "That two different cars don't hit each other and cause a big mess."

"And what's that thing over there? It keeps flashing words at us. Are you sure there's no magic around here?"

"It's a sign, Malfoy. It's an electronic screen that's programmed to flash words."

"And what's that? That right there?"

"A television. It's like a combination between a Wizard picture and a book—the movement and the plotline. Well, I'm not sure you could say soap operas or talk shows have plotlines, but you get my drift."

Harry ended up answering questions about cell phones, computers, ATM machines and even the pet shops.

"Why would a Muggle want a rabbit? They're utterly useless—can't even carry a letter for you."

"Muggles don't use animals as messengers. A little girl probably wants that rabbit because it's cute."

"Oh. Can we get a rabbit?"

"No, Malfoy. They're harder to take care of than you think."

"It can't be that hard. Hey, I thought you said this was a pet shop? Where are the frogs? And the owls?"

Harry sighed. "There are none. No kid is going to want a frog for a pet, and Muggles don't exactly keep owls as pets."

"Muggles are so strange. Owls are the most regal animals I've seen as pets, other than my Uncle's cobra."

The most interesting event of the afternoon had to be the restroom, Harry decided. You couldn't get much better than that. Draco had been appalled at the idea of using the public restroom. "Really, Potter. Other people use it, too! People we don't know! It's not healthy."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Come on, Malfoy. You said you had to use the restroom. Get over it."

Draco followed apprehensively, making sounds of disgust at things as he went along. He inspected each stall before choosing one, and Harry only thanked Merlin the bathroom was empty—he wasn't up to receiving the strange looks just now. Everything had been going well right up until the end—just as the toilet began flushing with a loud _whoosh_, Draco screamed.

Harry thought something had gone awfully wrong, though he couldn't imagine what was so dangerous about a bathroom. Draco came rushing out of the stall, his eyes wide and his breathing harsh.

Harry waited for Draco to calm down before he asked what had happened. Draco pointed wildly at the offending toilet and stuttered, "It—it attacked me!" Harry bit back the urge to laugh before finding out exactly what had happened, and asked how, exactly, the toilet had attacked him. "You saw it! It's a Swirling Vortex of Temporal Doom!"

"Malfoy. It's a toilet. We have one at the house," Harry said, attempting to hide his smile behind a hand.

Draco whirled on Harry. "No! It's not like the one at the house! First off, it flushed without me pushing the lever-thingy. Second, did you _hear_ it? It was going to suck me in with it! It would have _eaten_ me!"

Harry couldn't hold back his laugh any longer. "Malfoy, it's an automatic toilet. It has a little sensor that tells it when to flush. As for it sounding different—do you really expect every toilet in the world to sound the same? Most public toilets…well, I can't say most, but a lot of public toilets are more powerful than the average house toilet because they have to deal with more people. It's not a big deal, Malfoy."

Draco glared at Harry. "Swirling Vortex of Temporal Doom, Potter. I won't say it again. It was going to eat me."

Harry let out another laugh and hoped the hand dryer—it seemed they had no paper-towels in this bathroom, though he wasn't surprised—would be just as amusing as the toilet. Sadly, though, Draco forced Harry to explain about the dryer first so he wouldn't be surprised with anything that happened.

And so the afternoon went. At the restaurant, Harry had to explain why Muggles were so slow about delivering food. ("Draco, they don't have magic—you can't serve a platter of food with a flick of the wrist. Have patience.") Harry made Draco order something healthy and plentiful to eat, of course, despite Draco's protests that he wasn't hungry.

Over lunch, they had an amiable conversation about different likes and dislikes, which mostly centered around food. Malfoy had found the hamburger he was eating to be absolutely disgusting to look at but incredibly good to eat. Harry found he was even enjoying talking to Malfoy, which was strange. Not as strange as it would have been a month ago, but it was still strange.

After lunch, they headed to the mall to—Merlin forbid—shop. Harry grimaced as he was dragged into the first shop Draco saw with decent clothing. Draco started grabbing clothes off the rack, complaining that having to find his size and change into each outfit separately was tedious and wondered aloud (once again) how Muggles survived.

"You'd think that if Muggles were so smart they would at least discover a way for you to try on clothes without having to physically change each time."

Harry shot a nervous smile at the store clerk helping them and said, "Malfoy, shut up and try your clothes on." Maybe then you'll stop talking about Muggles and embarrass us further, he thought. The store clerk was looking decidedly curious and weirded out at the same time, and Harry wasn't very comfortable with it.

Draco came out, modeling gray slacks and a black button-down shirt. "What do you think?" he asked, turning around to give Harry the full view.

Harry, if he had been truthful, would have said Malfoy looked good enough to jump, right then and there. Then, realizing that thought was both crude, random, inappropriate, and just plain wrong, he said, "They look fine. Buy them." What was getting into him, really? That thought had come out of nowhere. Sure, he knew Malfoy was most likely the hottest guy in school, but that did _not_ give Harry the right to check out his ass…though…he was just looking, after all…what harm could it do?

Harry shook his head violently. It was Malfoy. There shouldn't need to be another reason.

"I don't know. The shirt's a little broad in the shoulders. You try it, Potter. I'm trying this one next," he said, taking a white shirt off the racks.

"Right," said Harry. He stepped into the stall and tried the shirt on. Draco forced him to turn all the way around slowly as he commented on the good and bad qualities of the shirt. Harry just focused on not yelling at Draco to shut up and not checking out Draco in the new, white shirt he was trying.

In the end, after at least fifteen shirts and ten pairs of pants each, they ended up only buying one pair of pants and two shirts between them. "Really, Potter—you can't buy everything from one store. Now that shirt you have is a good shirt, and though you may find a similar one somewhere else, nothing's going to fit you quite as well. But those pants you tried with it were absolutely hideous."

"But you're missing my point, Malfoy; they were comfortable."

"Comfort has nothing to do with it. They were hideous. A clown would not be caught wearing them."

Harry grumbled something under his breath, but didn't try to argue further. At least this shopping talk meant Draco wasn't asking as many questions.

They tried another shop, and another after it, all of them expensive and nice. Each time, they tried on an unhealthy number of clothes, Draco criticizing each one as thoroughly as the one before it.

At one of the last shops, they were ringing up their things at the counter when Draco spied a Muggle contraption that interested him. It was five silver balls, each suspended from two rods so that they were touching each other. Draco stared at it intently, as if trying to figure out its purpose, and then poked it. He scowled when nothing happened, as if poking it was supposed to produce some amazing result.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Really, Malfoy—you're just like a kid some times." Harry reached across the blonde and pulled the ball on the end back, releasing it when it was about horizontal with the table. Draco watched intently as the ball smacked into its adjacent ball with a resounding click, and then became even more interested as the ball on the opposite end flew into the air. That ball came down, causing the first to fly into the air yet again.

"It's a perpetual motion toy. They're really common. You get a good one and start it, and it could go for hours."

Draco clasped his hands together in glee. "That must be the coolest Muggle contraption I've ever seen. I want one!" He turned to the store clerk, who was staring at them strangely, and asked where he could find a "cool-ball-thingy" himself. She mentioned a store just across the mall, and Draco was off, Harry in tow.

Fifteen minutes later, Draco was the new proud owner of a "cool-ball-thingy," which was situated in a bag among all his new clothes.

Draco and Harry sat on a nearby bench as Harry listened to Draco's incessant prattle about what a cool toy he had just gotten. "Easily amused, are we?" asked Harry, smiling slightly. Really, if he had known Draco was this easily amused last week, things might have been much more interesting.

"You just don't think it's cool because it's normal to you—but I've never seen this before. Never even thought of it. You'd never see something this cool in the Wizarding world."

"That's how I used to feel, but about magic instead. I wasn't sure why everyone took it so nonchalantly—to me, it was incredibly that you could do things with a little wand and a flick of your wrist." Draco smiled and hugged the box that contained his new perpetual motion toy covetously.

"So what do we do know, O Easily Amused One?"

Draco pondered for a moment. "You were talking about 'movies'—something to do with the tele-majigs. You know, Wizarding Photos and plot lines?"

"Yeah, movies. What about it?"

"Let's see one! You said there was some theater of sorts around here. I want to see what all the hype is about."

"It's getting late, Malfoy. Don't you think we should go back?"

Malfoy shook his head vigorously. "Nope! We're having as much fun as we can while we're out. We may not get a chance to do this for quite a while longer, and I'm tired of being bored."

"Right. Movie it is, then. I don't know what's playing, though, so it's a matter of luck which movie we see."

"That's okay. I don't really care about quality, as long as we see it."

Harry smiled and led the way to the movie theater. They ended up seeing some movie that involved fighting and romance, and though it seemed like every other movie Harry had ever seen, and poorly done at that, Draco was still enamored with it. The acting was fairly decent and the special effects great, and that was all Draco cared about. He didn't care about the over-done plotline or the cliché lines that no one used anymore because they had appeared in too many previous movies. He sat throughout the entire movie, eating the too-buttery movie popcorn and drinking the slightly-flat movie drink, with a look of rapture on his face. Harry was bored after the first half hour, so he watched Draco instead (boredom really was a terrible thing). He watched out Draco's eyes lit up at the fight scene, the racing cars, the hidden romance…it was amazing what Muggles took for granted, really. Harry hadn't understood how much some Wizards missed out, though he realized he should have guessed there would be as many Wizards uninformed about the Muggle world as there were Muggles uninformed about the Wizarding world.

Draco wouldn't stop talking about the movie afterwards. He repeated every detail he could remember, going over the plotline step-by-step. He asked Harry as many questions as he could come up with while they waited for the cab, his eyes lit up and his hands gesturing wildly.

Harry smiled. It was such a sharp contrast between the suicidal Draco of a couple days ago and the happy, excited Draco of this evening. For a person to be so sad he felt it necessary to cut himself to relieve the pain…it was depressing, and scary, and Harry knew it shouldn't ever have to be that way again.

They made it home in one piece slightly after one in the morning. Draco was so tired he nearly collapsed as they walked through the door. The bags were dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the living room to be cleaned up later, though, as an afterthought, the perpetual motion toy was taken out and carried upstairs. "Something this cool shouldn't be treated like the average bag of clothes," said Draco at Harry's amused glance.

Harry stared in wonder at the pile of things on the floor. Between himself and Draco, they must have bought twenty complete outfits, and a few added shirts on Harry's part ("to replace all the flannel ones," Draco had said). He hadn't known it was possible to spend that much money in one day. Harry mused on the possibility that Draco might have a slight shopping problem, and then decided against it—he had a very big, in-desperate-need-of-help shopping problem.

Harry walked into the kitchen and began fixing a pot of tea, not even asking before he took out a cup for Draco as well. He had found that Draco always had tea—no matter what time of day—if it was fixed for him, that is (he wouldn't go near the Muggle kettle for the life of him).

Draco came down to watch Harry, hands propping up his chin. "I told you we'd be back without any problems," he said, grinning triumphantly.

Harry shrugged. "We'll see. Dumbledore has eyes in the back of his head, you know. He figures out everything. I wouldn't be surprised if we get a visit from him tomorrow concerning our little trip."

"Yeah," said Draco, "but it was worth it, wasn't it?"

The teakettle blew a shrill whistle, and Harry pulled the boiling water off the stove and poured it into the two cups. He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, it was." There was a long silence in which both sipped their tea. "We can start one of those puzzles tomorrow, before Mrs. Weasley gets here," he said. He had thought ahead as they passed a puzzle shop earlier in the day and decided that Malfoy could not be left to be bored again without similar consequences, and Harry knew their luck wouldn't stretch to a second escape from the house. Anyways, he had been craving a good puzzle lately, and he had already finished all the ones he could get his hands on twice over.

"Right. I like the one with all the dragons. They're not really realistic, but they're pretty cool, none-the-less." The easiest puzzle of the box, of course. Harry didn't really mind. He needed a warm up, anyways.

"Alright. But then we do the pretty one with the Liberty puzzle. It looks challenging." The Liberty puzzle was a 1000 piece, cut-out jigsaw of the statue of liberty, which Harry remembered from geography class years ago as being somewhere in New York, USA. Faded into the body of the Statue was what must be a picture of New York.

"And after that, the girl playing the flute." This puzzle was beautiful, with a young girl playing the flute. On the notes of her flute rode all sorts of miniature people, animals and magical beings. It was a swirl of colors, and though it looked easy at first glance, Harry anticipated it as being fairly difficult. Too many colors to keep track of them all, he thought.

Their tea finished, both boys headed up to bed. Harry smiled; he couldn't wait to get started on those puzzles. Anything to distract himself from thoughts of Sirius, or to distract Draco from suicidal tendencies, was something worth being excited about.

Really, today had been a good day, despite his apprehension earlier in the morning. It wasn't that bad spending time with Draco. Not that bad at all.

**xxx**

**A/N:** Okay, those last couple pages feel a little disjointed, but I didn't want to leave you with another short chapter, and there were a few things that needed to be discussed anyways. A few notes: 'Swirling Vortex of Temporal Doom' is a catch phrase of my brother's, but feel free to use it (though it is usually associated with rapids on a river, not toilets). Second, the last two puzzles (Liberty and Flute) are real puzzles that I love. I figured they needed a mention, if I was going to talk about puzzles.

Wow, a longish Author's Note, comparatively. Johnny thinks you should all review, ASAP. His incentive is that you all get virtual "cool-ball-thingies" if you do!

And another thing—thank you all SO MUCH for your constructive comments; they truly help when I'm writing, and I am attempting to go back and correct all previous mistakes.


	12. The Dark Side of Draco

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 12: The Dark Side of Draco**

**xxx**

Draco was staring up at his ceiling, thinking of nothing in particular—his mind could not settle on one thing long enough to be interested in it, so he wandered between topics. Sometimes his thoughts strayed back to the day he and Potter had spent in town—that had been marvelous fun, and he'd have to find a way to get Potter to do it again. Every once in a while, Draco thought of the object hidden away somewhere in the house—where _had_ Potter put his dagger?—and then he forced his thoughts to wander again. A few times, Draco thought of the puzzle sitting downstairs—the Liberty one—and debated about going and working on it some more, for he was incredibly bored, but he always decided against it.

Granger was in the house, right now, and Draco really didn't want to be around Potter. He fingered the bandages around his wrist, plucking at the ends absentmindedly. They hadn't been able to heal the wounds competently—Potter didn't know how, and Draco, for some reason, could not close them all the way, no matter how hard he tried. Consequently, he had to endure the changing of these bandages at least twice a day. It wasn't that the experience was an ordeal…Draco found he absolutely loved watching Potter's hands work—the way they were so gentle, so deft, so skilled. However, he also found that there was a very clear, very definitive, very uncomfortable silence every time. And Draco couldn't stand that.

Finally, Draco thought he heard the sounds of Granger saying goodbye. He waited a few moments, checked his watch—yes, this was about the time Granger was supposed to leave—and decided to venture downstairs. He had been cooped up far too long.

Potter looked up at the stairs as Draco descended, making Draco feel incredibly powerful and special. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Oh well.

"I was wondering when you'd show your face," said Potter, running a hand through his hair.

"I was bored. I came to do the puzzle. Granger's gone, right?" Potter nodded. "Perfect." Draco walked towards the make-shift puzzle table—the coffee table, transfigured to be much longer and wider than it was in reality—and sat down. "She didn't work on it, right?"

"Of course not. It's our project, not hers."

"Which would be?" asked Potter.

"The knowledge that we completed it, of course. What, are you thick, Potter?"

"No, just hungry. We're having pork chops for dinner, and don't argue—you're eating, whether you like it or not."

Draco made a face of distaste. "Potter, you would think you would just accept that I don't like to eat and leave it at that."

Potter shook his head. "Too bad. If I have you in this house, you _will_ be eating more."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

Draco put one piece into the puzzle and smiled triumphantly. Potter was immensely better at these puzzles than he was, but he could tell he was getting better—it wasn't exactly a hard concept to grasp, after all. Take this piece, put it with that piece, make sure they fit, and move on. Colors go with like colors, and you have to pay attention to shapes. Once or twice, Draco had attempted to change the shape of the puzzle piece to make it fit, but Harry had firmly told him he could do it no more—that took away all the fun and challenge of it, and in the end, it still wasn't right. Of course, then they had to go back and find all the pieces Draco had transfigured, which turned out to be more than half (hey—he had gotten frustrated with not getting any pieces in), but that was all the fun.

Twenty minutes and twelve puzzle pieces later, Draco could already smell the pork chops cooking in the other room. Potter came in for a moment and effortlessly put in three puzzle pieces in the time it took Draco to find one, then left. Draco sneered at his retreating back—really, did he have to be so good? Draco defiantly took out one of the pieces Harry had put in and threw it back into the box to be placed into the puzzle at a later date.

It was then Draco felt it—a searing pain, spreading from his left forearm all the way up to his shoulders, down through his torso, into his legs, and back again. His head pounded, and the blood rushing through his ears drowned out all the sound around him. He knew, on some level, that he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Draco's eyes were wide open in pain, forced as wide as they could go, but he could not see anything—only white, searing pain.

The pain only lasted for a moment, though it felt like hours, and then it was over. Draco was left in a throbbing heap on the ground, the after-effects of the excruciating torture he had felt only seconds before causing his body to shake with exhaustion and stress. His face was pressed into the carpet and he thought he could feel a couple of puzzle pieces underneath him, pressing into his skin. His limbs, spread at awkward positions, were numb, and Draco found he neither had the coordination nor the strength to move.

Then there were hands helping him—moving him gently, carefully, to a more comfortable position. Then lifting him up onto the couch, placing a pillow underneath his head. Draco opened his eyes, not aware they were closed in the first place, to see Harry hovering over him, a worried look on his face.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice quiet so as not to hurt Draco's ears. Draco just panted, however, not sure he was willing to answer. He knew fully well what that pain had meant—he just didn't want to admit it.

Harry conjured a glass of water and held it for Draco to drink from. "I heard you scream from the kitchen, and when I came in, you were in a pile on the floor. What happened, Draco? Don't avoid the question."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Draco realized that Harry had just called him—willingly—by his first name, out loud, with no malice or discrimination or sarcasm hidden behind it. But that wasn't really what was important. No, the hands that were gently cradling his head and brushing back a strand of loose hair, that were holding the glass of cool water for him to drink from, those were really what Draco cared about.

Draco pushed himself to an upright position, for, though he enjoyed the attentions he was receiving, he was still a Malfoy, and Malfoys were never helpless. He took the glass for himself, but set it down on the table when he realized how badly his hands were shaking.

Hesitantly, Draco pulled back the sleeve of his shirt on his left arm. There, burned into the bandages that covered the cuts on his wrist, was a small circle. Nothing obvious or incriminating, but, to Draco, it represented everything he feared and despised in this world.

It didn't take Harry long to guess. "Voldemort?" he asked, his voice holding disbelief, apprehension, and, most painfully to Draco, hurt. Draco winced at hearing that horrid name, but Harry continued without even a pause. "What's going on?" Harry tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but it was hard.

Draco took a few deep breaths to calm down, not allowing himself to talk until the shaking in his hands had stopped. "It's his call," said Draco. Hearing his voice crack, he paused, took a sip of water, cleared his voice and tried again. "He…he wants me to come."

"Well I figured that," said Harry, his voice full of sarcasm and hate. Draco could see it happening—Harry thought he had already chosen the Dark Lord; he was already judging a decision that Draco had not even made, that had been made for him. Draco could feel the pain welling up inside of himself that resulted from losing a friend he hadn't even known he had wanted. He was losing the one person that had shown more care for him in the past few days than his entire family had shown in his entire life.

"It's not that," Draco said, on the verge of crying. "I don't want to," he said, the tears threatening to fall.

Harry placed a hand on his, all of his previous anger suddenly gone once he realized that there must be something more behind what was going on. "Well, then, explain," he said more gently.

"My father made me take it just after our fourth year, when the Dark Lord had risen again. He did not want more followers immediately—especially those that were young and whose alliances were not yet known. He wanted to make sure he had trustworthy people by his side, and competent people that could do what they were told, not schoolboys that didn't know anything more than a few parlor tricks. So, instead, he gave a small mark to all his potential followers. Any that showed interest—mainly those with parents who were already Death Eaters, had had parents who were Death Eaters, or a few that had shown an extreme interest in the Dark Arts. Most of Slytherin, in other words. It wasn't a visible mark, either—he concealed it with some charm. It…it hurt. A lot."

"He said he'd call us when our time came. Either when he needed us, or when we had proved our alliances and our competency. I think that, since both my father and mother are in Azkaban right now, he was forced to call me early. My father had said not to expect the call until well into our seventh year. But he needs the Malfoys—they're such a rich, powerful, old clan, and that makes them important. He has to have all the old magic for taking over the world, and all the money that is involved with it."

"In short, he activates the charm he put on us—the mark that tells us we are needed." Draco's voice, which had regained much of its composure, began to crack again. "It only gets more painful the longer we resist the call. It won't tell him where I am, of course, or anything about me. The only thing it does is tell me to come, and where to go to. The pain gets less as you get closer to his location, you see—so if I try to run away, it will intensify exponentially."

Harry had moved from standing beside the couch to sitting on the edge next to Draco. He squeezed the hand he was holding, and Draco closed his eyes, knowing that, for the moment, he was safe. "We have to call Dumbledore. He'll know how to break the spell."

Draco scoffed. "That's right. You always run to Dumbledore when you don't know what to do. I had forgotten. You're his Golden-boy, and you can't do anything without his help."

Harry immediately tensed up, and his hand moved away. Draco suddenly regretted what he had said. "I'm sorry if he's the only one I can think of that can help. I certainly don't know how to break this spell, but my guess is that he does, and if he doesn't, he'll know how to find a way to do so. Anyways, he has to find out sometime or another—the Order has to know. The sooner we find out what Voldemort's up to, the more lives that can be saved."

"Everything's not up to you, you know," said Draco. "You don't have to save the world. If we don't tell Dumbledore immediately, and someone gets hurt because of it, it's not your fault—no one can blame you."

Harry's eyes darkened. "I hate to break it to you, but they can. They've dubbed me as their savior, and if I don't live up to it, they'll blame me, whether I asked them to or not."

Draco sighed and put his hands over his eyes. "How did we get onto this topic? It's not important right now. I'm just snippy because I hurt. Ignore everything I say."

Harry smiled, and chuckled a little. "I never thought I'd hear those words coming out of a Malfoy's mouth—ignore you? Where, then, will you get your ego from?"

Draco made an attempt to smile, but failed. "May I also mention that many of my walls are down due to the recent trauma I went through? Make sure to call Severus before you call Dumbledore, please—I like him much more, and he understands what I'm going through far better than the old coot we call Headmaster. Anyways, if you talk to Severus, my guess is the Headmaster will know before you even throw in the next batch of Floo Powder and call out his office."

"Right. Will do. And Draco?" Draco cracked an eye open to look at Harry. "We'll get through this." Draco closed his eye again, nodding almost imperceptibly.

Once Harry had determined that Draco was as comfortable as he could get, Harry went to the fireplace and flooed Severus. "Professor Snape," he said.

Severus's green, disembodied head looked at him from out of the fireplace. "Yes?" he sneered. "I assume you have a good reason for calling me."

"Draco is hurt. Something to do with Voldemort; you'll have to let him explain."

"And why do you tell me this and not the Headmaster?" Snape asked, venom in his voice. Still, Harry could hear a hint of concern.

"He wanted me to call you first," said Harry. There was an urgency in Harry's voice that Snape could detect, and suddenly the situation was very serious.

"I will be right over. Give me five minutes to gather my things; make sure to leave the floo connection open, Potter." There was no room for question, not that Harry had any protestations. Harry flooed the Headmaster as soon as Snape severed the connection, repeating the story, but with more detail.

In less than five minutes, the Headmaster, Snape, and Madame Pomfrey were standing in Harry's living room, forcing Draco to repeat the story over and over again, probing him with questions until they were satisfied with their knowledge. Harry was infuriated for a reason he could not tell—they shouldn't be badgering him in such a state, he knew, but outside of that, he wasn't sure about the source of his protectiveness.

Dumbledore sat back in the plush chair beside the couch and, with a wave of his wand, cleaned up the puzzle pieces Draco had knocked over in his fall. "It seems we have a problem."

"I had heard something of this," said Snape, "but I hadn't really believed it until now. I did not think he would be so bold as to do something of that sort. It seems I was wrong. I will research the cure. For now, he should take these potions," Snape gestured, "and hope it doesn't get worse quickly." Dumbledore nodded, tired, and Severus disappeared through the fireplace.

Madame Pomfrey was bustling about Draco, hovering like a mother hen. She fluffed this pillow, shook out that one, placed a blanket over Draco, then another, propped his head up, and did every other thing she could possibly imagine. Finally, Draco couldn't take it any more. "Just stop! I'll be fine!" he snapped. "No! Leave the pillow where it is. Leave it!"

Madame Pomfrey pulled back hesitantly, looking at the pillow yearningly. "But if I could just—"

Harry placed a hand on the nurse's elbow. "Just leave it," he said quietly, calmly, despite his desire to pick her up and throw her out of the house. She nodded, and retreated, though she still threw looks at the pillow as if she would jump on it at any second.

"There is nothing we can do, for now, Mr. Malfoy." Draco nodded, unconsciously biting his lower lip. "You can come back to Hogwarts, if you so desire, as it is an emergency. However, I think you would be more comfortable here."

"I'll stay," he said quietly, his arms wrapped around his lower waist.

"Headmaster," protested Madame Pomfrey. "I think it would be best if he came back with us. I can watch over him better if he is in the Infirmary."

"Mr. Malfoy will be perfectly fine under the care of Mr. Potter. If there are any problems, Mr. Potter will floo you directly, won't you, Harry?"

Harry nodded, but inside, he secretly rebelled. As if he would call that over-protective, slightly anal woman if Draco needed help. "Yes, sir."

"Very well. In that case, there is no other reason for us to be here. Mr. Malfoy, is there anything we can get you?" Draco shook his head. "I thought so. We will be off, then. Madame Pomfrey, are you coming?" With one last forlorn look at the pillow under Draco's feet, the nurse followed the headmaster through the fireplace.

Draco rested his head against the back of the couch. "Thank goodness. I thought she was going to start spoon-feeding me."

Harry laughed as he sat on the end of the couch. "I'm sure she would have helped you use the bathroom first," he said.

Draco made a face somewhere between disgust and horror. "Oh, no, she wouldn't. I would make sure of that."

Harry laughed again. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked. Draco shook his head. "Does it still hurt?" Draco nodded, shutting his eyes in pain, then opening them again. The moment of laughter was gone, and the full force of what had just happened hit him once again. He sobered up immediately, and tears started to well up in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" asked Harry. He rested a hand on Draco's knee.

Draco shook his head. "I'm scared, Potter. I don't want to go to Voldemort."

Harry was having a hard time deciding whether he was relieved, shocked, or just surprised. Draco was actually admitting he was afraid? And he didn't want to go to Voldemort? Draco's admission was a relief and somewhat shocking. He had, for some reason, always thought the blonde would follow in his father's footsteps—despite all the contrary evidence, it had just been an assumption. On some level, Harry had always known Draco would stay on the good side, but he had never really heard it or talked about it.

"Good. You shouldn't want to," said Harry, softly. "We'll get through this, Draco."

Draco closed his eyes, listening to Harry say his name. That was something he had never thought he would hear—not without malice or sarcasm, and certainly not more than once in a single day. And now that he had…well, it was nice. "Thanks," he said, forcing the tears to go back down.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asked. "Or does it fall into the category of 'cannot be discussed,' too?" Draco nodded slowly, unwilling to speak—he knew that, if he started talking now, he wouldn't stop.

But would that be a bad thing, really? No, it wouldn't. Screw Malfoy appearances. He was talking. "My father's always wanted me to be a Death Eater, you know," Draco said quietly.

"You don't have to talk about it," Harry said quietly.

"I want to." Draco closed his eyes. "I shouldn't, but I don't care anymore. Just listen, okay?" Harry nodded. "He's always wanted me to follow him, obviously. I didn't want to take this mark," he said, gesturing to the circle on his forearm, "but he made me. He expected me to serve the Dark Lord perfectly in every manner, no matter what. No, that's not true. He just expected me to be perfect, and the Dark Lord was included in that. Perfect grades, perfect body and face, perfect attitude, perfect servitude, and absolutely perfect cruelty. He was always so mad when Granger scored better than me, of course."

Draco's voice was starting to get hoarse, so Harry summoned another glass of water, which Draco drank from thankfully. Then, continuing, he said, "They got worse every year—the beatings, I mean. First it was for the big things, like a failing grade, or getting in trouble, or defending half-bloods and muggle-borns, but then it was for the little things—saying something he didn't like, or looking at him wrong. Never my face, though—my face was supposed to be perfect, so he couldn't beat that."

Draco took another sip of water, forcing the tears back. "It was because I refused to serve the Dark Lord that the beatings got so bad, I think. I refused at the beginning of the summer, and they got exponentially worse after that. He didn't look for a reason after that—he just beat. Then the Order came and arrested him, and now I'm here. I was so happy when I heard he was in Azkaban, and I'm not sure if I should be happy or if I should feel guilty that I don't love him as much as I should. But I am happy—there's no denying that. From Azkaban, he can't get to me—but if he escapes, I'm in trouble. He wouldn't take well to me living with you and not going to the Dark Lord."

"Well, it's a good thing he's there, then. The only person to ever escape was my godfather, and I doubt your father can pull off what he did." Draco raised a curious eyebrow and filed that question away for later. "Well, are you okay?"

Draco shook his head. "No. But I will be, I guess."

"Does it really hurt that badly?"

"Potter, that is the most annoying trait in you, I believe—the one where you worry too much, take everything into your own hands, and ask too many questions. You just asked a while ago if I was alright, and I said no then. If anything changes, I'll let you know, but otherwise, leave it alone…but, to answer your question, yes, it does," he said quietly. "It's excruciating. You can't let me leave this house, Potter. No matter how bad the pain gets. You can't let me go."

"No worries, Malfoy. I've been looking for a reason to beat you to unconsciousness for a long while now."

Draco smiled, but he wished Harry would call him Draco again. It seemed their time of closeness was over, and that was saddening. "Right. Anyways, weren't you making food? I'm hungry now."

Harry beamed. "Well, the food was ruined when I stopped cooking to pick you up off the floor, but I can whip up something good really fast. Just sit here and do the puzzle, if you want. I'm just glad you're eating!"

Draco stood up. "I don't want to sit here anymore—I fear Pomfrey might appear through the fireplace to fluff that last pillow one more time. I'll come sit and watch you cook, instead."

"Fine by me. And Draco?" Draco looked up at Harry, who was standing so close Draco could almost smell the scent that was distinctly Harry. Draco stood with his head bent slightly down, knowing that if he looked up all the way he would be close enough to kiss the boy, and, though that thought had a certain allure to it he did not wish to think about, Draco knew it would be wrong to do. Instead, he kept his head down and played close attention to every detail so that he would be able to recount them all at another point later in time.

There was a long silence, and Draco was starting to get unbalanced—he knew that, if he stood in this position much longer, anticipating whatever it was Harry would say, he would fall into the boy, and that wasn't good. Luckily, Harry started talking. "It's okay, alright? We're here, and we'll take care of you." Harry's voice was low and husky, and it sent chills running down Draco's spine.

He couldn't help it—he looked up. "Thank you, Harry," he said, his voice equally low and husky. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and Draco was sure they were about to kiss—but then Harry pulled away, and Draco was left missing the warmth that had come from his body.

"What do you want to eat?" Harry asked, his eyes staring pointedly at the floor, one hand nervously ruffling his hair.

Draco leaned back on the couch, using one arm to support himself. "Anything's okay with me," he said, unsure of what he was feeling.

"Alright, macaroni it is." Harry walked off into the kitchen, but Draco stayed behind for a moment. What was coming over him? He had never felt this—out of control—before. He couldn't understand it. Why did he suddenly want to jump Potter? Okay, so it wasn't that sudden—he had been lusting after Potter's body, secretly of course, since he had first admitted to himself he was gay. But this was something else entirely. He had been close to jumping the boy! He had to get his feelings under control—now.

After many deep breaths, Draco felt ready to walk into the kitchen. He sat down at the counter and watched as Harry prepared their meal. The boy bustled from counter to counter, preparing a small salad as the water boiled. Eventually, though, there was nothing left to do but wait, so Harry came and sat across the counter from Draco.

The silence was deafening. Finally, Harry had to say something. "So you don't want to be a Death Eater?" he asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Duh, Potter. Weren't you listening? You ask way too many questions, you know."

Harry looked down, embarrassed. "Yeah. Well…I was just wondering…why? You always seemed in such agreement when you were younger…" Harry trailed off.

Draco looked down at the counter. "I had to keep up appearances, you know?" he said quietly. "If I were anything but enthusiastic, my father would find out, and then it would be hell when I got home. But I never really believed it—there was a time when I convinced myself I did, but it was never true. I couldn't imagine killing Muggles or half-bloods. It's…I can't even imagine myself killing anyone, even if they were horrible and terrible and I hated them. But I don't hate people who aren't from old wizarding families, not really, and that makes it all the harder to want them dead."

Harry sat quietly for a moment, watching Draco, who found the counter immensely more interesting than anything else in the room. Then the timer for the macaroni beeped, the shrill sound cutting harshly into the quiet. Harry got up immediately and finished fixing the food; when he was finished, he placed a bowl in front of Draco, who took his fork and ate steadily at the food, though he no longer had the appetite of a few minutes ago.

It didn't take long to finish. Draco placed his bowl in the sink—actually putting his own dishes up for once, though he would not clean them—and went back to his room. It had been an eventful day, and he was tired, and he hurt.

Draco collapsed onto his bed, not even changed from his clothes. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but he didn't have the energy or the strength or the willpower to muster the tears. He was confused—why had he felt so strongly about Potter? Why did he have so much regret about not just up and kissing Potter, right then, when he had the chance? Why wouldn't his arm start hurting, and why did Potter have to be so concerned about him? Why did Voldemort have to call now, when it had just been getting comfortable and fun to be around Potter? Why couldn't he just stay here happily, going shopping every once in a while with Potter, doing that puzzle downstairs, eating his cooking and joking around? Why did Voldemort always have to screw things up!

Frustrated, Draco finally moved to throw his pillow across the room and into a lamp, which came crashing to the floor. He looked apathetically at the shards of the broken lamp on the ground, then waved his wand to repair it. That hadn't been nearly as satisfying as he had wanted it to be.

**xxx**

Harry sat at the counter long after Draco left, staring at his empty bowl. What had come over him today? He was worried about Draco, yes—anyone would be. No one should have to go through any of that stuff, ever. But the feelings that welled up inside him that weren't concerned were too numerous and too confusing to interpret. He couldn't understand what he thought or felt, and that bothered him. All he knew was that he really, really wanted to follow Draco up to his room and hold him, tell him that everything was all right. But he knew he couldn't do that.

Harry looked up when he heard the crash upstairs—it sounded like a lamp or something. He knew Draco needed to vent, so he didn't go to investigate; the Slytherin would call if he needed help. Harry stood up and waved his wand to clean the dishes, then headed upstairs to go to bed. Whatever was bothering him, it could wait until morning. He was tired, and he didn't want to deal with any of this any longer.

**xxx**

**A/N:** That's all for now, folks. Sorry it took so long—I was just busy with exams and such.Johnny begs for your reviews, for he worked really hard to force me to write this chapter—I was being rebellious, for I had too much homework, but he just wouldn't stop. Plus, he really likes the angsty bits, and he would like to hear your praise. (PS—He'll sick the overly-motherly-Pomfrey on you if you don't!)


	13. Break Down

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 11: Break Down**

**A/N: Here is my New Year's present to you. And, to let you know, one of my resolutions is to update more frequently. Wish me luck! Hope you enjoy! **

**xxx**

Draco was staring at his ceiling. Again. At the damn spot right above him. Again. And his arm hurt. Still. It was getting worse—every hour, the pain increased, just a little bit, but enough to make a difference. He was going slowly insane—he had been reduced to an inanimate blob, for it hurt too much to move regularly. And it had been less than twenty-four hours. He knew he was going to go crazy soon—he just didn't know exactly when, and that was what scared him.

Draco heard a hesitant knock on the door—Harry coming to check up on him, he assumed. Draco pushed himself to an upright position, despite the pain, and called for him to enter.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, warily looking at Draco. He said nothing. Draco wanted to fidget after a moment under that look, but he resisted the urge. Malfoys did not fidget.

"How are you?" asked Harry after a few minutes.

Draco looked in another direction—anywhere but Harry's eyes. "I'm fine."

"Liar," said Harry, not even trying to believe him.

"What would you have me say?" he asked, suddenly angry. This pain was putting him on edge. "Yeah, my arm is killing me, and I feel pretty helpless and pretty scared. But there's nothing I can do right now. I'm fine, Potter." Draco almost winced at his tone of voice—but he was too angry and in too much pain.

Harry's eyes softened. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I wish I could help, but I don't know what to do."

Draco looked at the bed sheets, playing with a small bit of it between his fingers. "I know. It's okay. I just tend to be combative when I'm in pain or when I'm nervous or when I'm scared or when…well, I tend to be combative."

Harry gave a small smile. "I've noticed." Draco tried to return the smile, but he couldn't—he just didn't have the energy. Silence settled upon the room, and Draco couldn't tell if it was comforting or unnerving. Finally, Harry broke the quiet. "I brought you some pain potion," he said, pulling it out from a pocket, "and some Dreamless Sleep stuff. I know the pain-killer-stuff didn't work very well last time, but I figured it couldn't hurt. And I know you don't really want to take the Dreamless Sleep potion—its addictive qualities and all—but you need some rest, and this is what Snape advised."

"I don't need any rest, Potter. I'll pass. But thanks for the consideration."

"He said you'd say that. Draco, you need rest. You're tired and you're in pain, and you've been up for far too long. Your body needs to sleep, even if you don't want to. Snape told me that if you don't take it I'm allowed to force it down your throat, but I really don't want to do that, so will you please just take it?" Harry asked, his voice quiet and coaxing.

Draco meet Harry's eyes for the first time since he had entered the room and found true concern there—not superficial care or curiosity, but concern. He reached his hand out and took the potions, downing them in the matter of seconds. It would be a few moments before the Dreamless Sleep potion kicked in completely, but he could already feel its drowsy effects on him.

Harry and Draco sat there, staring at each other, letting the silence become oppressive while the potions began to take effect. As Draco felt the sleep potion taking over, he moved under the covers, pulling them close around his body. It would be nice to get the sleep, despite the consequences. "Thanks, Potter," he whispered, slowly losing his grip on consciousness.

"For what?" asked Harry.

"For caring," he said, almost too quiet to hear. Then he was asleep, and any questions Harry had to ask were postponed until a later time.

**xxx**

Draco woke up slowly, struggling against the clutches of unconsciousness and slowly to the realm of the living, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to wake up. He didn't open his eyes immediately—he didn't want to. Opening them would be admitting that the world was there, and now, while he was still under the after-effects of the Dreamless Sleep potion, he could almost pretend the world was nice—he could almost believe his arm didn't hurt, and that Voldemort wasn't calling him and…well, now he was awake. Damn thoughts.

Still, he kept his eyes closed and lay still—someone was in his room, he could tell. Sitting on the edge of the bed, actually. It took him a moment to realize it was probably one of two people—Severus, or Harry. He bet on the latter, though he wasn't sure why; he just knew it was.

He wasn't disappointed. Harry was sitting on the end of the bed, a silhouette. The lights were turned out, and he was framed in the small light coming from the hallway through his open bedroom door. He was looking at something—but Draco couldn't tell what. It was too dark.

Then it hit him. His picture—it wasn't on the bed stand. Draco stirred, sitting up. He knew, on some level, that he should be angry—angry that Harry had riffled through his stuff and picked up his personal belongings to look at them. Well, so he hadn't really riffled; if Draco really hadn't wanted Harry to see the picture, he probably wouldn't have left it out in the open. On some level, he probably wanted Potter to ask him about it—probably why he left it out. That didn't mean it wasn't a shock when the time came, and it didn't exactly mean Draco was thrilled with the idea.

Harry turned as Draco sat up. He raised his wand to wave the lights back on, but Draco shook his head—he wasn't ready to confront the world in light. The darkness was hard enough as it was. Anyways, there was something decidedly less personal about the dark—it made it easier to talk and easier to be vulnerable. After all, if the other person couldn't see you, they couldn't really know what you thought, could they?

"Hey," said Harry softly, breaking the silence. Draco almost regretted that the quiet moment was gone—it had been nice, in its own way.

"Hi," said Draco. He wrapped his arms around his middle, and then winced—he had almost forgotten that his arm hurt so badly. Almost.

"I came to see if you'd be waking up soon. I—Snape told me that I would be able to tell, because you'd be moving restlessly in your sleep. I…didn't want you to be alone when you woke up. Just in case."

Draco couldn't tell if he was comforted, shocked, or disgusted with this information. Almost immediately ruling the last out, he decided it was something between the first two. Either way, he was wary.

"Anyways, I saw this picture on your bed stand…and I just wanted to look. You look pretty happy, you know."

"Yeah." Draco reached out for the picture, and Harry handed it over. Draco looked at the picture, running his fingers over the glass and trying to make out the figures in the dim light—not that he needed to. He had it memorized.

In it, he was sitting with Blaise under a tree. It was a fall day at Hogwarts—the leaves had just started falling, and Blaise had a few in his hair from their previous game of rolling in the grass. It was crisp, too, for both their cheeks were red with the cold and the wind. Blaise, every so often, would poke Draco's red nose, which Draco would then wrinkle, expressing his distaste for the act. He knew they were smiling, each with a glint in their eyes—even the memory made him smile. They weren't obvious in any way, but you could somehow tell—the feeling of care and love between them was almost palpable, visible even in the picture through their secret glances and little touches they had thought the camera wouldn't catch.

"I was happy," reaffirmed Draco quietly. Harry was waiting for him to elaborate, he knew…but he almost didn't want to. Sure, he wanted to explain everything. But somehow, by telling the story, Draco was afraid it would lose some of its magic. But that was a silly idea, and it was certainly no reason for him to refuse to talk.

"He was the first to know, actually. He caught me in the shower room just after Christmas. My father had been especially cruel and cold that break, and I had become careless—I just didn't take the precautions I usually did to remain secret, and he walked in on me. He took the knife away, healed my wounds for me, coaxed me into a chair in our dorm room and made me explain everything. There were a few other things, of course, but irrelevant. We…became close. He took away the knife and forced me to eat, and I learned to be so comfortable around him that I told him everything. He…you remind me a lot of him, actually."

Harry waited. He knew if he spoke now, Draco would stop; he didn't know how he knew that, he just did. Finally, after a long pause, Draco continued. There was something in his voice—almost indistinguishable and hard to understand or hear. It was almost ethereal—there was so much tender care in the voice, even if it was hard to detect, that Harry almost thought he didn't know this person sitting in front of him.

"We became closer than I thought I could ever come to someone," he said softly. "It was the first time I had ever known someone could care that much about me. After my father—well, I hadn't even thought love possible. Blaise made me change my mind. We became so close…and…" Draco clutched the picture closer. "He changed how I saw the world. For a while, I didn't think I needed to cut myself—he made me see that life was good. I…I loved him, and I felt loved. When I returned to my house that summer and started cutting again, though, he was hurt. He tried to get me to stop, but I couldn't—no matter how much I knew it hurt him to know I was hurting myself, I couldn't stop." Draco's voice was cracking, and tears were welling up in his eyes. He was glad it was dark.

"Something happened—we became more distant, more out of touch; we fought over little things, and it eventually became too much. We broke it off—our personalities clashed too much. We found we couldn't make as many concessions to each other as we had thought we could. Love couldn't conquer everything. We stayed friends—he still cares about me, and I care about him. We visit each other every so often, keep each other company. But we both know it can't work." Draco's arm was hurting more and more as he kept talking—the pain was overwhelming, mentally and physically, and he just couldn't take it.

The tears were streaming down his face now, and he couldn't stop them, no matter how hard he tried. Harry was shocked into stillness—he hadn't thought Draco was gay. Sure, he tended to be a bit effeminate—the shopping was a bit telling—but not gay. He was too much of a player at the school…though, now that he though about it, he was pretty sure Draco had never dated anyone but Pansy, and everyone, even the Gryffindors, knew that had been superficial and pre-arranged.

Finally, after realizing that Draco was having an emotional breakdown, Harry leaned forward and placed a hand upon his. "It's okay, Draco," he said, though he felt it insufficient and stupid—he just couldn't think of anything else to say.

Draco nodded, but tears squeezed out of his eyes and dripped on the sheets, one even landing on Harry's hand. "We were happy," he choked out, "and I ruined it by pitying myself. What was I thinking? He cared about me—he was the first one to actually care about me, Harry. It meant so much. It's why I keep this picture—it was a truly happy day in my life, and I haven't had many of those. It all went downhill so fast after that…" Draco was too overcome with his sadness to continue. Between the pain and the fear, and now this, he was overwhelmed; no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't stop crying.

Harry moved closer and pulled Draco into a tight embrace. He wasn't sure, exactly, what he was doing, but he wasn't about to stop. Harry kneeled next to him and pulled Draco's head underneath his own. After a moment, Draco impulsively wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, pulling him even closer.

Oh, but that wasn't a good idea. The pain shot through Draco's arm, jolting all the way up and down his body. He jerked away from Harry, a small cry erupting from deep within. He curled up into a ball, clenching is good arm around his bad and curling around it, trying to protect it from the pain that was coming from within—it wasn't working, to say the least. The tears, which had finally slowed to a halt, threatened to come again—thankfully, Draco was able to keep them under control.

Harry felt helpless—there was nothing he could do to help allay the pain, and he knew it. He gently placed a hand on Draco's back, but it was quickly shaken off; Harry took no offense, though. There was no reason to.

Draco clenched his teeth until they hurt, though nothing seemed able to overshadow the pain coming from his arm. "Go, please," he was able to get out. His breath was coming in short gasps and sweat was pouring down his forehead. Harry didn't want to go, and he hesitated getting off the bed, still hovering over Draco on the bed. "Go! There's nothing you can do; you're just making it worse. The pain responds to my emotions—increasing when I'm sad or melancholy, and becoming exponentially worse when I'm anything else. It means to put me in misery. So just go, so I can be depressed and stay sane as long as possible."

Harry got off the bed, his heart reaching out for Draco. No matter how many times they had fought and called each other names, no matter how much they were supposed to hate each other, Harry could never wish this kind of pain on anyone…except, maybe, for Voldemort himself. But even that would be pushing it. Harry felt something stirring deep within him, something he didn't understand—something made purely of magic. But as soon as Harry thought about it, concentrated on the feeling, it was gone. It left him feeling slightly queasy, but otherwise unaffected. He shut the door softly behind him, giving Draco the privacy he had requested.

**xxx**

Harry had found his bedroom entirely too oppressive to stay in, unable to even shut his eyes for more than a few moments, no matter the late hour. He sat on the couch now, trying to repair some of the damage done to the puzzle when Draco had fallen on top of it—though Dumbledore had restored it to its original place, he had not placed all the pieces back where they had been. So Harry was attempting to complete just a little more of the puzzle, since there was little else to be done. It was slow going, however—his mind was elsewhere, and he was unable to concentrate on the puzzle the way he should. Where it once took in less than a minute to place two or three pieces, it was now taking him ten minutes to place just one.

It was early morning now—he would get up and prepare breakfast soon. Something light so that Draco would be able to keep it down. The Order would be arriving just after noon to discuss plans. Hopefully they would be able to fix things. Somehow, Harry doubted it—this was too serious. He hoped, but he doubted.

Harry looked up at a small noise behind him—Draco was coming down the stairs. Harry was surprised; last he had checked, Draco was unable to move from the pain. Of course, things might have changed since then, but Harry highly doubted they had changed for the better.

Draco looked strange to Harry, and after a little examination, Harry realized why—he was acting like a crazed, scared, cornered animal—the kind that's trapped in a cage, hurt and terrified and ready to fight its way out of anything. Draco's eyes were big, searching, and almost feral. He crept stealthily, slinking along the wall, always watching Harry and looking as if he were about to bolt for the door.

Harry moved to get up slowly, but Draco, hair disheveled and eyes large, tensed as if ready to bolt. Harry froze, then moved back to his previous position, keeping his eyes on Draco. Something was wrong—very, very wrong. "Draco?" asked Harry, keeping his voice calm, steady, and as unthreatening as possible. "Draco, what's wrong?"

Draco didn't answer, but started moving towards the door again—more cautiously, watching Harry and ready to run at the slightest sign of movement. Harry, moving as imperceptibly as he could, reached for his wand—it was in his belt, and he knew Draco couldn't see it from where he was. To distract Draco from the slight movement, he talked.

"Draco, do you need some more pain potion? What's wrong? Why don't you come over here, and I'll get you some potion and a glass of water. Maybe you can do the puzzle a little, take your mind off things. Come on, sit next to me. I'll make breakfast. Dumbledore and Snape will be here soon—for the Order meeting. We're going to find out what's wrong with your arm, and then we'll fix it." The words fell on dead ears—either Draco couldn't hear him, which Harry doubted considering their proximity, or he had temporarily lost the ability to understand words. If anything, the words put Draco on even more of an edge. Harry momentarily feared that Draco had gone crazy, but pushed that feeling back—he couldn't be afraid, and he couldn't think such thoughts. Everything would be okay.

Harry had reached his wand, but Draco had also caught on to what Harry was doing, and he bolted. Harry pulled out of his wand, yelled a spell and jumped over the back of the chair, all in one fluid movement. He didn't want to hurt Draco, but the boy was already pulling the door, about to escape outside, where Harry knew he would not be able to stop him. So instead of aiming the spell at Draco, he aimed it at the door, which slammed shut and locked tightly (thank you, Hermione), and Draco was left to claw at the door uselessly. He tried the handle twice, realized it wouldn't work, and turned around—only to find Harry had cornered him. He crouched down, like an animal ready to fight its way out, tooth and nail, from a situation that could kill him. Harry tensed, ready to fight back without hurting. Thankfully, Draco didn't have his wand—it seemed that the feral instincts that had taken over had not needed that little piece of magic.

Harry didn't see it coming, but he was expecting the movement. Animals do one of two things when they fear for their lives—fit was called the "fight or flight" syndrome. Draco had tried to flee, so now he would fight. He jumped at Harry without warning, his arms out and ready to scratch and punch and pinch his way out of the house. Harry threw down his wand, knowing it would be of virtually no use, and caught Draco midway.

They crashed to the ground in a mass of limbs and struggled on the floor for a few moments. All Harry could think of was getting Draco calmed down, held down, so that he could breath and regain his sanity. He winced as a blow connected full-force on his cheek, but he refused to throw a punch himself—Draco had done nothing to deserve it. It was not Draco fighting, but the instincts inside him that were crying out to stop the pain.

Finally, Harry was able to maneuver so that he was holding Draco from behind. He wrapped his legs around, struggling to keep Draco from kicking and regaining his feet to bolt, for, by now, the locking spell had worn off—it was, regrettably, only temporary. Harry wrapped his arms tightly around Draco, trying to keep the flailing arms pinned. He used his body to pin the rest of Draco underneath him, and he was suddenly glad that he was slightly bigger than Draco, if only by a little.

They struggled for quite a bit longer, Harry gaining more and more scratches and bruises as time went; Draco almost got away once, but Harry was able to keep him under control—barely. And finally, it was over. Almost anticlimactic, if you asked Harry. Harry kept his grip tight, but Draco had stopped struggling. They were both breathing hard, energy spent, and Harry knew that if Draco decided to struggle again, he wouldn't be able to do anything to stop the boy from leaving. However, Draco was just as tired as he, and the crisis was over.

Draco was shaking in Harry's arms, and, after a while, Harry realized he was crying. Though he knew he could move now, for Draco was going no where, he stayed right where he was—he could not move, not now. He didn't do anything—he just lay there, wondering at what had just happening, trying to decide if it was a dream or reality.

Finally, Draco moved, stood up. Harry stood up with him, but neither would look at the others—the floor had become very popular. Finally, Draco said, "It's getting worse. I can barely think through all of the pain."

Harry nodded—not that Draco saw it, of course, for he was looking at the floor. "What can I do to help?" he asked.

"Don't lock me up yet," Draco asked, his voice pleading. Harry almost looked at him, but decided against it. "It's going to get worse—the longer I wait, the faster the pain grows. But I don't want to be locked in a room quite yet. But…if it happens again…it would probably be best."

Harry nodded. "All right." He looked up, finally, but Draco was still examining the floor. "Can I get you anything? Can I do something to help?"

"Just…don't leave me alone, okay?"

"Alright," said Harry. "You—want to work on the puzzle, maybe?"

Draco looked up. Harry could see the pain and fear in his eyes—it was dominating a face that was usually stoic, without emotion. It was strange, Harry decided, to see so much emotion roiling in the young Malfoy's eyes—and it was scary, too.

**xxx**

**A/N:** That's all you get for now, people. I hope you enjoy. Johnny begs for reviews—he says you get a stuffed doll of Draco if you review.


	14. Pure Magic

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 14: Pure Magic**

**Important A/N:** I've recently created a Forum (I'm just trying it out) for "Food for Thought" (and it's actually called "Food for Thought").It's actually not just for this story--more like all the fanfics I've written--but I wanted to see if you guys would like to chat with me (and with each other) about anything that's happening in the story. You know--questions (when is the romance coming? what's with the title?), comments (you suck!), Trelawny-esque predictions for the future (it's the Grim!). I would especially love some constructive criticism. If you'd like to visit it and post a comment, visit my account-page-thingy and click on the "forums" link.It should be self-explanatory from there. And I won't be offended by anything you say, I promise. Anyways, if you post there, you may just be able to encourage me to post more often...

**xxx**

"Godammit, Draco, calm down!" muttered Harry.

He was worse—so much worse. The puzzle idea hadn't really helped—Draco had only become more antsy as the seconds passed, itching at his arm incessantly. Then he had walked around, paced the room, back and forth, muttering things under his breath. Then he had started talking—crazy talk. It was often comprehensible, though it jumped from subject to subject—and then there were the times it was completely insane.

"Hurts, hurts. My father and I used to go shopping all the time. Red shirts, shoes. Black, black, black. Why does the dog smell like pizza? Voldie! Haha! Voldie and moldie sitting in a tree, ashes, ashes, we all fall down! Oh, my sweet revenge in the making, for the taking. Steel…red…Did you know, cutting is a wonderful way to relieve pain?" At this, Draco turned a curious look towards Harry, his hands clasped behind his back and eyes wide and crazy. Harry just stared—what could he do to help?

After that, the talk became decidedly worse, and, as time went on, decidedly less comprehensible. Then the worst part came—Draco started screaming. About that time, Harry decided it was time to put Draco in a room, and he was right—at that moment, Draco bolted for the door, unable to constrain himself any more.

Now, Draco was in his room, the windows spelled shut and unbreakable and the door sealed tightly. Harry only hoped Dumbledore would arrive soon—or anyone else, for that matter. He didn't like having to deal with this on his own.

Harry was seriously considering tying Draco down to the bed when he heard someone moving around downstairs. Relieved someone had finally come, Harry virtually ran out of the room, making sure it was shut and locked behind him (and patting Draco's wand in his back pocket).

"Snape! Thank Merlin you're here. Draco's upstairs, and it's not good—the pain's worse, and he's gone crazy. There's no reasoning with him, Snape."

Severus looked at the crazed boy in front of him with a look between distaste for Harry and worry for his godson. "Take me to him, Potter. I really hope you haven't done anything stupid recently. You should have called us the moment it got worse, though."

"Sir, sorry to be disrespectful, but it was always getting worse. I didn't want to escalate the matter by calling people here earlier when I knew you were coming within a couple hours, and, anyways, Draco specifically asked me not to call anyone unless he was trying to kill something."

Snape said nothing, but Harry could feel the disapproval radiating off of him. Snape stormed in the door with his typical drama, causing Draco to look at him and Harry to roll his eyes.

"Ah, Sevvie, what's up? You know, you always had a knack for being a dramatic old bat, didn't you? Do you have makeup on? Or are you really a vampire? No, I know you're not—otherwise you might have turned your poor little Godson, hmmm? You should have never trusted Hollywood. And Potty! You should know you have the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen—and your lips are absolutely luscious. Not like old Sevvie's, here—they're gross and moldy. You know, I think he's now kissing—"

Severus waved his wand, and no more sound came out of Draco's mouth. "That is enough, Draco." Harry found it creepy that Draco's lips continued to move, obviously rambling on and on, but no sound came out.

"How long has he been like this, Potter?"

"You mean rambling like a loon? A little less than an hour. Half crazy? About three hours."

"Stay here through the meeting; we need someone to keep an eye on him at all times, and, loathe as I am to give such a job to you, you are the only one we can spare at the meeting. Now, tell me all his symptoms—do not leave a single thing out Potter, for that could mean Draco's life or death—or sanity, for that matter."

Harry nodded. He listed everything he could think of since Snape, Dumbledore and Pomfrey (crazy lady) had left earlier. The Headmaster arrived about halfway through the recount but didn't interrupt. At the end, even Harry could see the troubled look in Snape's normally-guarded expression (when it wasn't holding disgust or contempt).

"We must move quickly, Severus, before young Mr. Malfoy is too far gone to be rescued," said Dumbledore quietly. "I'm afraid there may be no cure we can find in time, but we must try."

Severus nodded. "I believe everyone has arrived, Albus. We should start the meeting as soon as possible. Mr. Potter," Severus said, turning to Harry, "Please do not screw up."

Despite the condescending message, Harry could hear the fear, pain and pleading in Snape's voice—after all, he did say please. Harry just nodded and turned towards Draco. Oh, this could be bad.

**xxx**

It had been three hours. Three hours with no word from the meeting—not even a cursory check-up. After the second hour, Draco appeared so exhausted that he collapsed on the bed. His mouth still moved incessantly, but Severus's spell was still working. Harry kept a close eye on the blonde, trying to discern any dangerous changes in his appearance, but he could detect none.

Harry was scared. In the two weeks or so since Draco's arrival, Harry had found the blonde infuriating, then tolerable, then friendly, and now…well, Harry didn't wan t Draco to leave, that was for sure. He wasn't quite sure if they were friends, though they had certainly gone through al the requirements to be friends—comfortable silence (well, sometimes), eating together, shopping (that one still surprised Harry slightly), and even confiding deep, dark secrets. And though they may or may not be friends, it didn't change the fact that Harry wanted Draco to be okay.

Harry was jerked out of his thoughts by a strange movement from Draco. What had appeared to be restless sleep had gotten Draco into a position where most of his body was hidden from Harry—and Harry just remembered how sneaky Slytherins could be, even when half-crazy.

"Draco?" asked Harry quietly. The Slytherin's body stiffened, but didn't change positions. In fact, its motions quickly became more frantic. Harry moved around the bed slowly, cautiously, until he could see exactly what Draco was hiding from view—and he was shocked with what he found.

Draco was gnawing—chewing!—at his arm, scratching and biting at the skin just below the elbow. He had already punctured the skin and most likely the muscle, but Harry couldn't see how deep the hole was. When Draco saw that Harry had found him out, he supported his left arm with his right and drew back up against the headboard, snarling at Harry as he moved. Blood was covering his face, smeared across his cheek and coating his mouth. A piece of skin was plastered to his chin by blood. Harry wanted to either throw up or run to get someone from the meeting, but he knew there was no time for either.

"Draco," he said gently, moving slowly. "It hurts, huh?" Well, duh, thought Harry—it hurt so much that gnawing it off was a better recourse than enduring the pain. "We can make it better. Why don't we go find Severus? He'll help you—your Godfather, right?" asked Harry, recalling that information from the rant Draco had earlier. "He'll give you a pain potion and a sleep potion, and then you'll forget the pain altogether. By the time you wake up, you'll be okay. Draco, do you understand me?"

For a moment, comprehension lighted Draco's eyes, but it was soon gone. Draco tore more furiously than ever at his arm, causing Harry to let out a scream of surprise. "No! Draco, stop! You're just hurting yourself more!" Harry leaped towards Draco, wand forgotten, and wrapped him in a tight embrace so that he couldn't reach his arm.

Harry's proximity caused Draco to only become wilder, fighting tooth and nail to get out of Harry's grasp. He clawed Harry's face, leaving bloody streaks across Harry's forehead and cheeks. He wasn't sure if the blood was his or Draco's, and he had a feeling it was a mix of both. Draco, all traces of humanity erased, fought against Harry's grasp, punching, biting, and scratching for his freedom. When he wasn't biting, his mouth was open in a silent, feral scream that was more disturbing than anything else. All Harry's senses were reduced to a heightened awareness of the blood that was everywhere—he could taste it in his mouth, feel its sticky coat everywhere on his body, on Draco's body, see the sickly red it covered everything in. Most overwhelming was the smell—sick and tangy and covering any other smells in the room.

Suddenly, Harry felt the upwelling of power he had felt only twice before—once when he blasted down Draco's door, and once earlier in the day. He hadn't recognized it then—the feeling of pure magic from deep within him—but he knew what it was now.

Reaching for his last hope, Harry concentrated on that magical feeling. At first, it diminished, for his awareness of it caused it to become harder to find, but Harry fought that, struggling to attach his mind to it more securely and bring it to the surface. Not realizing what he was doing, he closed his eyes and gripped Draco tighter than before.

Soon, all senses of the blood had faded, leaving the overwhelming sense of magic to be the only thing Harry knew. It caused the insides of his eyes to go bright and every bone in his body to ache with the need to release such power; his fingers itched and his hair stood on end, and all Harry could hear was the blood rushing and pounding in his ears. Harry gritted his teeth and let the magic flow out of him, but he couldn't control it—what started as a trickle of power became a stream and then a river, and soon everything in the room was magic.

Harry blacked out, then resurfaced a minute later—still, that moment of unconsciousness was what was needed to let the magic go. All traces were gone, safe the slight ache of his bones, a sickly feeling in his stomach and a pounding in his head.

It took Harry a moment to realize where he was and what was different. Slowly, awareness of the room returned, and Harry could smell the acrid blood again and taste its irony, coppery taste in his mouth. And Draco wasn't moving anymore—that's what was different. Panicked, Harry frantically searched for any sign Draco was still alive. Finally, he found a weak pulse and, if he watched closely and listened hard, he could see and hear Draco breathing.

Apprehensive, Harry gently turned Draco's left forearm over. There, the skin had puckered into a small circle of white tissue in the place of the black sign of Voldemort's call. Harry, relief overwhelming his body, collapsed. Black ate away at his vision, taking control of his body, and, finally, Harry slipped from the conscious world to join Draco in peace and rest.

**xxx**

Harry woke slowly, swimming to the living world through a pool of blackness that only wanted to call him back. The light in the room was dimmed, which meant either it was night or someone had pulled the curtains closed in the room.

"Ah, you are awake, Mr. Potter," came the Headmaster's voice from somewhere to Harry's left. "You slept a little more than a full day, you know—it's about dinner time now."

Harry chose not to respond—he hurt, and talking seemed as if it would only make the situation worse. Memories of the previous day slowly filled his mind, and Harry closed his eyes—he hoped Draco was all right. Tears pricked at his eyes and his mouth tightened in a thin, straight line. He wouldn't be able to bear it if Draco hadn't made it.

"Right, right. You're probably still a bit worn out from your exertion. You should know before you sleep again, however, that your friend, Mr. Malfoy, is doing well. Madame Pomfrey has performed a thorough check on both of you, and was very surprised to find nothing more than exhaustion to be affecting either of you. Severus is with young Draco at the moment, waiting for him to wake up. I will not bother you with questions now, but I expect a full report of the events that traversed while we were talking uselessly in the den."

Harry didn't hear anything more than Draco was all right, but that was all he needed. He drifted into unconsciousness once more, his face relaxed and a small smile on his face.

**xxx**

This time, there was no one in his room when Harry woke up. A bit of light peaked out from the bottom of the curtain, shut tightly to let him sleep. Feeling much better (though still a bit sore), Harry moved slowly out of bed, pushing the blankets back, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge. Of course, then the blood rushed to his head, which, consequently, began pounding out a steady rhythm, but none of that mattered. He had been told Draco was all right, but now he needed to see it for himself.

Harry pulled a white T-shirt on over his bare chest and changed his pants and boxers—obviously, whoever had undressed him had been respectful of his privacy, which Harry was thankful for. He couldn't imagine what he would do if Snape or Pomfrey (or anyone else, for that matter) had taken all his clothes off.

Harry stumbled to the door, opened it quietly, and looked carefully down both ends of the hall—he didn't really want to confront anyone right now. Luckily, there was no one around; it was probably early, from the quiet nature of the house. Harry stumbled across the hallway to Draco's room, opened it clumsily and shut it as quietly as he could behind him. It seemed he was a bit worse off than he had first thought, but that was okay. He could sit down now.

Harry stopped when he saw who was still sitting in the room—Snape, it appeared, had yet to leave Draco's bedside. There were bags under his eyes and a closed book in his lap. When Harry entered, he looked up. "Potter," he said, though his voice lacked its normal venom. "You are up early."

"Hello, Professor," said Harry quietly.

Then he looked at Draco. It seemed the Headmaster had not told the full truth to Harry, knowing Harry would immediately wish to get up and see Draco. The blonde was pale and sickly looking, a thin sheen of sweat covering every visible inch of skin. He was sleeping restlessly, eyes moving frantically and whimpering every so often, his hands clenching and unclenching and his legs jerking at odd intervals. His arm was bandaged tightly—obviously, Pomfrey had not been able to fully heal his wounds with magic and had been forced to resort to more muggle treatments.

"How is he?" asked Harry.

"Well, he is no longer chewing his arm off, thanks to your stupidity—or bravery, I can't decide. But he will not wake up, no matter what we try, and he shows no signs of doing so soon. Madame Pomfrey did not find anything in her examination of him, and we can think of nothing else that could be keeping him in such a state."

Harry couldn't decide if he were more shocked or more worried; Snape had paid him a compliment, yes, but Draco was doing very poorly. The second feeling won out quickly as Harry watched Draco's sickly form.

"Sir, you should get some rest—I mean that with no disrespect. You've been up, if my guess is right, for well over 36 hours since you've arrived, and my guess is you didn't sleep much before that while trying to find a cure for Draco before the meeting. I'll stay with him while you nap. The room next door should be uninhabited; I'll wake you up, if you wish, in a few hours."

Snape nodded. "I must be tired, for I don't even wish to entertain the thought of protesting either sleeping or your competency. Watch over him carefully, and call me if anything changes—for the better or worse, mind you, Potter."

"I will."

Harry took Snape's place beside Draco's bed, examining him carefully. He felt the blonde's forehead—hot and sweaty. Harry frowned, worry clouding his eyes. He moved to sit next to Draco on the bed, taking one clammy hand in both of his. "Draco," he whispered. He glanced to the door, then waved his wand and locked it, covering it with a silencing charm for good measure. Then, more confident that no one would hear him, he continued.

"Draco, I know you can hear me, somehow. You're going to be okay. Voldemort can't call you any more, you can't hurt yourself again, and you're still alive. All you have to do is wake up, and you'll be fine. I just thought you should know."

Harry broke the wards on the door and returned to his seat next to the bed, feeling slightly childish but much more comforted. After a few minutes, it seemed to him that Draco's movements became less frantic and his eyes moved less frantically—but that might just be his own hope and wishes.

Harry picked up the book Snape had left—_Heart of Darkness_ by Joseph Conrad. Someone had once told Harry (probably Hermione) that the entire meaning of the novella was that there was no meaning in the world, and, once you believed that, there was no meaning to the story you had just read—not even the meaning that there was no meaning. She had reveled in its paradox, and Harry wasn't surprised Snape was reading it—it seemed like his kind of book. Still, Harry couldn't believe something so depressing—he had to believe that there was more meaning to life than what that book might suggest.

"Let me guess," came a voice from the bed, "_Heart of Darkness_ by Conrad?" Harry looked up to see Draco's face smiling weakly at him. "He always carries that around in his breast pocket, and he reads it when he's worried. Something about there being no meaning in the universe, not even in that book."

Harry smiled and moved to the bed once again. "Yeah, Hermione said something like that."

"I don't think he really believes it, though, else why would he carry it around? It's really only there to remind him everything the world has to offer. At one point, he might have believed it, but not anymore." Draco let out a weak cough and closed his eyes.

"You shouldn't strain yourself; you're still healing."

"Right. How long have I been out?"

"I don't know exactly—I only got out of bed myself about an hour ago. But, from what I can gather, it's been a little less than 48 hours since you tried to escape through the door."

Draco nodded. "I don't hurt anymore. Did Snape find a cure?"

Harry looked at the bed. "Not exactly. I—they were in a meeting, and you started attacking yourself. I didn't know what to do…so I healed you. I don't know how, but it was like that surge of power I had to get into your room a while back."

Draco nodded again. "I'm not surprised, really." He pulled moved his arm, trying to see it, but winced in pain. "Well, at least it's not the circle that hurts any more. What did I do?"

"Tried to chew your arm off."

"I always am one for the dramatic, hmm?" mused Draco. He gritted his teeth and pulled his arm in front of him, but the forearm was bandaged.

"It's just a little scar—like mine, but a circle."

"Great. You think I'll get the publicity you do, or can I get away with just a small article on the sixth page of the _Daily Prophet_ and call it a day?"

"What do you mean?"

"We've both been marked by the Dark Lord—only difference is, you're the Boy-Who-Lived and I'm a Death Eater's son. The papers will eat it up."

"Well, at least your scar is easier to hide—a good robe will do for you, but my only recourse is my mop of hair or a hat."

"No wonder you've always kept your hair so long—a hat would only make matters worse, anyways. You have no taste, so it'd probably be gaudy or offensive. Or both."

Harry chuckled. "Right. So you obviously feel better, if you're well enough to make jabs at my fashion sense. Do you want me to get Snape? He's sleeping in the next room, and he wanted to be notified if you woke up."

"No. He probably needs the sleep. Knowing him, he hasn't gotten a wink of shut eye since you floo'd him a couple days ago."

Harry smiled. "That's what I said. I'll wait a couple hours, in that case—but don't let him know, or he might skin me alive and use me in his most dastardly potions."

Draco smiled. "Right." He yawned and shut his eyes, then opened them again.

"You should get some more rest."

Draco nodded. "Alright. But—don't leave, okay?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll be right here when you wake up. And Snape probably will be, too. So sleep well. And Draco?" Draco raised his eyebrows, his eyes already closed and drifting to sleep. "You're going to eat the biggest meal you've ever had when you wake up. Just thought you should know." Draco drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.

**xxx**

A/N: Look! I stuck to my New Year's resolution, and this chapter's only a week after the last one! Johnny says you should all review and be happy. I know this chapter was short--I'm sorry--but the next one's the longest one I've ever written, so rejoice! And review!


	15. Realisations

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 15: Revelations**

**A/N:** I would like to mention before I begin that I have absolutely no idea how Exploding Snap is played, so I made it up along the way. I hope I am vague enough so that it is not contradictory to whatever the real game is…but forgive me if it is. I would also like to give kudos to the reviewer who recognized the _System of a Down_ lyrics in the previous chapter and thank her for talking about them—for I had forgotten they were in there. Therefore, I would like to place a **disclaimer** on those lyrics—I don't own them. Thanks for enduring the long Author Note.

**xxx**

Harry suppressed a giggle—oh, if only he had a camera. Draco Malfoy was currently being pampered and fawned over by Mrs. Weasley, who was talking enough for everyone in the room.

"Oh, we're so happy you're alright, Draco," she said. "I know my boys were horrid to you the other night. I hope you'll forgive them. You'll join us this Sunday for dinner, right? I'll make sure no one bothers you. You can sit right between Arthur and me." Harry fought back another giggle as Draco let out a grimace while Mrs. Weasley wasn't looking. Harry wondered if he should save the poor blonde…then decided he would much prefer to watch a little longer.

"It's just awful what happened to you! You-Know-Who was quite bold to put such a mark on so many youngsters like you. You should be thankful Harry was here—even if we don't know what happened, he certainly saved you a lot of trouble. Oh, dear. I think I overcooked the turkey. Oh, no—it's fine. Thank goodness."

Harry decided it was time to rescue Draco, who looked as if he were about to bang his head repeatedly against the table in front of him.

"You want to go work on the puzzle?" he asked, making sure not to use Draco's name. He felt using 'Malfoy' was childish and stupid, considering how much they had been through and the tentative relationship that had grown between them, but he certainly didn't want to use Draco's first name ion the presence of others—he wasn't quite sure how that would go over, especially with Ron and Hermione.

Draco nodded frantically, thankful that someone had the decency to save him from the over-protective, mother-hen attitude Mrs. Weasley had taken on. Harry stood up and supported Draco with one shoulder and a hand on the blonde's elbow, steadying him as best he could. Draco was still quite weak from his ordeal, being physically exhausted and a little too beaten up to be mended immediately by magic.

Harry helped Draco get situated around the puzzle, placing pillows in strategic locations to make sure he was comfortable while allowing Draco to work on the puzzle at the same time. "Is there anything you need?" Harry asked. Draco shook his head. "I guess I'll just leave you here, then. Call me if you need anything." Harry turned and joined Ron and Hermione, leaving Draco to work on the puzzle.

Draco lowered his head and forced back any feelings of sadness he may or may not have been feeling. There was no reason he should think that Harry would be spending more time with him—not when his best friends were here to keep him company as well.

Harry sat next to Ron and Hermione, smiling tiredly at them. "What's up, guys?"

"Not much here," said Hermione, but Harry could tell there was something—she never was that good at keeping secrets, really.

"What's going on?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"We were just wondering why you were being so friendly with the most famous git in the school, that's all," said Ron, a trace of bitterness slipping in through his tone.

"Ron!" exclaimed Hermione, jabbing him with her elbow at the same time. "We weren't going to talk about it!"

"That's alright, 'Mione," said Harry. He really was too tired for all of this. "I understand. We've just come to an understanding, Ron. We've been living together for a little over two weeks—it's hard to avoid him, so we try to get along as best we can. He's not that bad, really."

"Harry, I think you've been spending too much time with Malfoy if you think he's a nice guy," said Ron.

"Ron!" said Hermione, a little louder, and the jab she gave Ron in the chest was decidedly harder than the previous one. She turned to Harry, an all-too-sweet smile on her face. "Harry, it is perfectly fine if you're friends with Malfoy. I'm glad you two are just getting along, not at each other's throats all the time. Anyways, it would be absolutely marvelous to stop all this bickering in the hallways—you know, we might even be able to form a small study group with the Slytherins! I know Zabini is really, really smart—he always gets good grades in Arithmancy. I wonder if Malfoy could get him to help me…"

Harry smiled, and Ron rolled his eyes. "'Mione, I highly doubt Slytherin is going to overcome their prejudices so easily so that you can get help from Zabini in Arithmancy. We know you probably have the best grades, so don't even try," said Ron.

"No, Zabini scored higher than me on two out of seven tests this marking period—I want to see what I've done wrong, and I'm sure he could help me."

Harry and Ron both rolled their eyes this time. "Right, 'Mione. Right," said Harry. He stood up and got a glass, filling it halfway with ice and the rest with water. "I'm just going to take this to Malfoy," said Harry, grabbing an apple as well. "I'll be right back."

Harry didn't see the look Ron and Hermione exchanged, nor the jab Hermione gave Ron in response. He was too focused on Draco and the puzzle. He silently placed the food and water on the table within Draco's reach and placed two puzzle pieces in their place, all in one swift motion. "How are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Fine, Potter. Now leave before your sympathy sickens me."

Harry was surprised, yet not hurt too terribly (or so he told himself). He knew Draco was tired and hurt and frustrated, so he wasn't going to let Draco get to him. "What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing. Go back to your friends, Potter." Draco's voice was a little to loud for Harry's comfort, and he knew Ron and Hermione were listening.

"I thought we were past the last-name thing…" he said quietly, not understanding.

"Obviously not."

Harry didn't understand, but when Draco didn't say anything more, he returned to Ron and Hermione. Ron, a smug look on his face, couldn't help but say, "See? I told you he was an evil git."

Hermione, deciding the not-so-subtle approach of jabbing was not enough, smacked Ron upside the head and told him to shut up. "What happened, Harry?"

"I'm not quite sure…" he said, a little stunned as he sat down.

"Maybe you offended him with something you said?" suggested Hermione.

"Or maybe he really is an evil git," muttered Ron, though not quiet enough—Hermione still jabbed him with her elbow. "I'm going to be bruised tomorrow," complained Ron, rubbing the spot where she had repeatedly hurt him. "And I'll blame it all on you."

"I should think so," said Hermione, "but I'm sure your mother will agree with me. You need to be nicer, Ronald Weasley. Harry's obviously worried; why can't you see that." Ron quieted down, sulking a little as he conceded the point. Hermione turned back to Harry, who was still staring off into the distance.

"Now, Harry. What did you say that might have offended him?"

"I don't know…" he said quietly. "I—I'll see all of you at dinner, okay?" Harry turned and rushed out the door, past Draco, up the stairs, and into his room. He wasn't sure what Hermione and Ron would think, but he knew he needed to get out of that room and be alone.

**xxx**

When Harry came down for dinner, Draco was already sitting at the table, and Ron and Hermione were sitting at the other end, with Mrs. Weasley in the middle, attempting to carry on the entire conversation by herself. Harry smiled—it was really sweet of her to stay here while he and Draco recovered. She was leaving right after dinner, taking Ron and Hermione with her, but she had agreed to stay today and fix all meals, clean the house, and help Harry with anything else he might need.

Harry wasn't even sure he wanted dinner, and he certainly wasn't sure where to sit. He wanted to sit next to Draco, to amend any wrongs he had committed, but he knew that would only make him angrier. He didn't really want to sit next to Ron and Hermione, either—between the pity-looks and uncomfortable conversation he would be getting, not to mention possibly making Draco angrier, he didn't want that. He decided on a relatively neutral position across from Mrs. Weasley, approximately halfway between Draco and his friends.

Harry looked sullenly at his plate the entire dinner. He didn't like being this self-piteous, but he couldn't really help it—what had happened between himself and Draco?

Finally, the dinner was over. Ron and Hermione stood up, whisking their own plates away with a bit of magic, and Harry accompanied them to the fireplace. "Have a nice night, Harry. We'll see you Sunday."

"Yeah, mate. Don't let Malfoy get to you, okay? He's just a slimy Slytherin—nothing to get worked up about."

Harry looked up at Ron, his eyes suddenly burning with a new flame. Careful not to let his voice raise or come to the point where he would offend Ron, he said, "Could you just lay off? His name's Draco. If you have a problem with that, don't call him anything. We were almost friends, Ron. Can't you see that? He's not as bad as you keep making him out to be."

Ron looked at Harry, then to Hermione for guidance (of which he got none), then back to Harry. "Right, mate. I think you need some rest, so you can clear your head. Malfoy, nice—now that's a good one."

"Dammit!" snapped Harry, unable to control his anger any longer. "That's not it, Ron! He's a nice person—and if you'd just listen for a moment, you'd know that. I know you're not this stupid. I'll see you both this Sunday."

With the obvious dismissal, Ron and Hermione each went to their separate houses, though Hermione had enough time to give Ron a disapproving glare first.

Harry turned on his heels, angry for reasons he couldn't quite understand. Despite what he felt, there was no reason to snap at Ron that way. He ran almost straight into Draco, who had managed the strength to stand up and was trying to walk up to his rooms on his own.

Harry stopped, the anger in him suddenly dying. "Draco—"

"What?" asked the blonde, though the malice was notably lacking in his voice.

Harry faltered—there was really nothing to say. "Do—do you need help to your room?"

Draco looked at him, his eyes searching Harry's for something Harry couldn't quite understand. At last, Draco nodded, and Harry, relieved, wrapped an arm securely around Draco's waist, where it would have been earlier if Ron and Hermione had not been in the room. Draco draped an arm over Harry's shoulders, and the two hobbled up to Draco's room, each unwilling to talk.

Harry gently helped Draco onto the bed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked quietly, knowing there would be nothing—there was never anything Draco needed. He always just shook his head. Still, Harry didn't leave. He stood, watching Draco, as if gathering the courage to say something.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmured. "I'm not quite sure what I did, but I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

Draco sat quietly, an unreadable look on his face. "I know. I overreacted to something you had said."

"Will you tell me what? It won't happen again, I can assure you," pleaded Harry, worried that something he might say would set Draco off again in the future.

Draco crushed his hopes, however, when he shook his head. "No, it's okay. I just won't get mad like that again. I know you didn't mean anything by it—as I said, I was overreacting."

Harry stood, still unwilling to go, as he was uncertain as to his standings with the blonde in front of him. Not wishing to look like a gaping fool, he finally asked, "Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

Draco looked up, his face carefully blank. "There's nothing I need," he said, quietly.

"Draco…you know that's not what I'm asking. What would you like?"

Draco looked down. Obviously, Harry had seen right through his façade—dammit, the boy should have been in Slytherin, or something. Most anyone would have fallen for that line. "Just…stay and talk for a while, if that's alright. I don't much like being alone."

Harry smiled, relieved there was something he could do, no matter how small it was. "Of course," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, careful to leave a moderate amount of space between them. "What would you like to talk about?"

Draco was thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, I don't quite know. Is there anything you have in mind?"

Harry thought for a few seconds. "I'd really like to hear more about Blaise, if that's alright. Feel free to say know—I know it's possibly a touchy subject with you. I was just wondering, that's all."

Draco smiled—he was glad it was something he felt safe talking about. Well, not necessarily safe—he had never actually talked about Blaise with anyone before, and he wasn't sure how this would go. But he knew, somehow, that talking about it with Harry wasn't a bad thing.

"What's there to tell, really? Blaise was one of the few people who loved me for who I am. He didn't expect me to go to the Dark Lord—actually, he really wished I would turn it down. I guess he'd be happy about that, now. I hope he's doing well—he always wished the best for me, you know. Always making sure I ate well, that I was taking care of myself. He made sure to wake me up on time every morning, and I can't be more grateful for that. I would have been late more mornings than I care to count without him, and he experienced his fair amount of curses, bruises and scratches trying to get me up. One particularly bad morning, I believe I gave him a black eye and a split lip—but he still woke me up the next day, and he never really blamed me for the wound. He just went to Madame Pomfrey and told her he had tripped and fell, though I'm sure she didn't believe him…but he didn't care. Really. All he wanted was that I would be okay. And I almost failed him that…" Draco sniffed and bent his head, willing himself not to cry.

Harry placed a comforting hand on Draco's arm. "I'm sure he would forgive you."

"I wish I knew how he was."

Harry smiled. "We can ask Dumbledore, you know—see if he can come over for a few hours, maybe the night."

Draco looked suspiciously up at Harry. "What do you get out of this?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Harry. "I'm not a Slytherin—well, not by house—so I don't need an ulterior motive in anything I do."

"What do you mean, 'not by house'?" asked Draco, his eyebrows raising in question.

"Well, I almost got sorted into Slytherin. The Sorting Hat said I'd do well there, but I didn't want to go there—all those nasty rumors surrounding the house, you know."

Draco sat back, thinking. "Who else knows?" he asked cautiously.

"You, Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, Remus, Sirius—well, he knew. Not anymore." Harry turned away from Draco to take a steadying breath. "That's about all, I believe."

Draco nodded. "Interesting. Who would have thought the Gryffindor Golden Boy would have been so close to being a Slytherin?"

Harry nodded. "A reason I keep it a relative secret from the general population. Who knows what the school or the Daily Prophet would make out of it."

"Truly Slytherin of you," said Draco, a sly grin on his face.

"Right. Don't go using that information against me, know, Draco. You have yet to see my 'truly Slytherin' side."

Draco scoffed. "I doubt that. You could barely figure out who was messing with your streamers on your birthday. You wouldn't even have the galls to mess with me, Potter."

Harry smirked in a way that reminded Draco of himself in a creepy way. "You'll see, Malfoy. You'll see."

Draco laughed, glad for the cheerful banter. He had been stupid to think Harry was trying to prove a point earlier—that Harry didn't want to be friends was an absurd notion, and the realization of that idea gave Draco more relief than he would have thought possible.

**xxx**

The next day, Draco woke up to a bouncing Harry on his bed. "Merlin, what has you so hyper and cheerful this early on my bed? You should be shot for your sin against the good nature of sleeping in," muttered Draco.

"I asked, Draco! I asked Dumbledore, and he said yes! Blaise will be over this afternoon, around one!"

Draco shot out of bed, fully awake. "Damn, Potter! I thought you were just saying that last night to make me feel better!" Draco, the shock worn off, looked at the excited, bouncing boy in front of him. "Thanks, anyways. What time is it?" he asked, his previous grogginess returning as the shock wore off.

"A little after eleven."

"Right. Then I still have a good hour before I need to get up. I'll see you then."

Draco rolled over to go back to sleep, but was rudely dissuaded of this idea as Harry ripped the covers off of him. "Oh, no you don't. You're getting up and having breakfast. Then we need to clean the house—Mrs. Weasley did a fine job keeping it tidy while we were sick, but I mean for this house to be relatively sparkling before Zabini gets here, and I will _not_ be cleaning by myself."

"I assure you, the house does not need to be spotless. Now give me back my covers so I can sleep."

"No. It's been too long since I've had a houseguest, yourself not included, and so we're going to clean. Get up. I expect you downstairs in five minutes, or I'll come back and dress you myself."

Draco sighed as Harry left. He really, really didn't want to get up. Besides, what was with Perky Potter? There was no need for the house to be spotless—really. Especially if it meant he had to get out of bed. Draco sighed and rolled out of bed, despite his body's protests. It seems the night of rest and Madame Pomfrey's potions had finally healed his body so that he was relatively recovered, though he was still a bit sore, and he assumed he would tire easily. Swell.

A little less than five minutes later (he knew Harry hadn't been kidding about dressing Draco himself), Draco appeared downstairs, greeted by a large breakfast and an overly-perky Gryffindor.

"Morning, sunshine! Eat up—you'll need your energy, 'cause there's a lot to be done in a very little bit of time."

Draco sighed and ate as much food as he could manage—there was no way he'd finish all the food Harry had placed on his plate, though, and he quietly sent some of it to the trashcan when Harry's back was turned.

Harry immediately whipped around. "Don't think I don't know what you just did, Draco. I'll let you get away with it for now…but lunch is going to be even bigger at this rate." Draco sighed. So much for that plan, it seemed.

Draco and Harry immediately began working. Harry had allotted the fifteen minutes before one so that he and Draco could change out of their work clothes. Draco was still wondering, however, why they were cleaning the muggle way. If they had cleaned by magic, they wouldn't need to change—everything would be disposed of without having to get dirty at all. In general, Draco was appalled—he had never cleaned a single thing in his life—that was what house elves were for—and he certainly didn't want to start now. But Harry wouldn't listen to reason, and he was stuck with a rag and some cleaning fluid to dust with.

"Harry, why are we even cleaning this room? It's a bedroom! No one's going to see it! I mean, Blaise is likely only going to see the living room, the kitchen, a bathroom and possibly my room. Nothing more! No reason to clean!"

Harry finished what he was scrubbing and started cleaning the windows of the room. "Dumbledore said that Blaise might spend the night, if he could get permission from Blaise's parents. Don't worry—I asked if he could, Dumbledore didn't impose. Sorry if you didn't want him to, but I figured you might like to spend a little more time with him. Dumbledore told me you were supposed to be spending time with him the day the Order attacked, so I know your visit was cancelled. So this room has to be cleaned, despite your protests. Now, finish dusting that desk, and we need to move to the bathrooms—you just reminded me of them, and we certainly can't leave them. Of course, we only have about half an hour left. Thank goodness Mrs. Weasley is good at keeping things tidy, or we wouldn't have been able to finish."

Draco listened to Harry's prattle for a moment, but tuned it out soon after he learned why the bedroom had to be cleaned. Really, he hadn't expected this—it was very considerate of Harry to let Blaise intrude on his house for the night so that Draco could spend time with his friend. Not many people had ever been this nice to Draco—truly nice, with no ulterior motives. Blaise and Severus were the only two Draco could even think of that began to be this nice. It was touching, really, but Draco didn't dwell—it was likely just the Gryffindor in Harry that had him acting so nice, nothing else.

**xxx**

Blaise Zabini arrived at exactly one o'clock to find an eager, happy Draco and a satisfied Harry waiting for him as he stepped smoothly out of the fireplace. Really, Harry was envious—how is it that everyone, even Hermione, was graceful when using the floo except him?

Severus Snape quickly followed Blaise, stepping out just as smoothly and calmly, not even a trace of soot on his imposing figure. "Draco, it is good to see you doing better, though you should not be so active so soon after your…experience," Severus said carefully, casting a meaningful look on Blaise. Draco knew he would have to explain everything to his friend, and he was grateful Severus was allowing him to do so. "I am leaving some more potion with you—it should take care of the last of your ailments. Make sure to alert me if you need anything. I will return tomorrow at noon to pick Blaise up so we may return him to his home."

Severus returned to Hogwarts through the floo without even a glance at Harry, for which he was glad. He and Snape, it seemed, had come to an understanding in which they each ignored each other, and both were content to do so.

Harry beamed at Draco, then at Blaise. "Welcome, Blaise. I know you two probably wish to catch up, and I need to make lunch, regardless. Call me if you need anything, Draco. And make sure you arrive promptly at three—I really would prefer not to drag you down here."

Harry turned to go into the kitchen. It wouldn't take two hours, of course, to make lunch, but that was okay. Harry would make the sandwiches now, put them in the refrigerator, and work on the puzzle. He was fairly sure Draco would take Blaise to his room, so there would be no worry of intruding on their conversations. Anyways, he was hoping to get some serious work done on that puzzle—it really had taken them too long to complete it, even with all the things going on the past few days.

Draco turned to Blaise and the two made their way to Draco's room. Once inside, Draco cast a quick silencing and locking charm. He knew Harry wouldn't come to listen, but he wanted to make sure Blaise was comfortable.

"I thought you couldn't do magic over the summer?" said Blaise simply, avoiding talking of the situation at hand for the moment.

"There are wards around the house that allow it," stated Draco simply.

"Everything for Dumbledore's Golden Boy, right?"

Draco shook his head. "No, not really—I'm not sure why, either, but I think it's more for safety. This way, Harry can practice spells and such without being discovered. Anyways, it's nice for me."

Blaise nodded slowly. He wasn't a Slytherin for nothing—he could see there was a lot Draco wasn't telling him. For starters, there was calling that Potter boy, who Blaise had thought Draco's worst enemy, by his first name. Draco looked up, waiting for Blaise to ask a question and start the conversation, though he knew Blaise would be at a bit of a loss as to the situation—on reflection, Draco realized it was probably quite overwhelming for his friend, who had thought he knew Draco so well he would be able to predict every word out of the blonde's mouth.

When no question was forthcoming, Draco began. "I know it's strange—really, if you had told me at the beginning of summer I would be at Potter's house and okay with it, I probably would have laughed my head off and figured you had just been spending too much time in that Divination class you insist on taking. That, or I would have given you the antidote to a Polyjuice potion and asked what you had done with my friend."

"Right. So I guess you should begin at the beginning, because you're really not making much sense."

"Over the summer, the Order of the Phoenix—a group dedicating to combating against the Dark Lord—attacked my house and took my parents captive. It was the day after I was supposed to arrive at your house, and, well, they weren't expecting I would be there. Knowing I would be in danger if I continued to your house as I was supposed to the next day, they brought me here. There were a few Ministry officials who would be wondering where I was, so everyone figured it would be better if I dropped off the face of the planet, even if that meant everyone would think I had gone to the Dark Lord for asylum."

Blaise kept his face carefully guarded as he took in the information. "I had thought that," he said simply. "And so did the Daily Prophet. I suppose it was a good plan."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. Harry chose not to receive the Daily Prophet for reasons Draco did not quite know or understand, so the information was new to him. "Yes, I suppose it was. I wasn't happy with it at first, needless to say. But really, it hasn't been that bad. The first few days were rough, but…Well, we had to get along eventually. We went shopping one day—that was marvelous, you know. And…well, he found out," said Draco, knowing Blaise would know exactly what he meant. "It didn't go over well at first, but I suppose it's not that bad now. He's a lot like you were back then—he makes sure I eat well and all. It's slower going, for some reason—my stomach really just doesn't accept the food—but it's going well."

Blaise nodded. "It's good to know someone has taken over my duties," he said, though he didn't really mean it. That was just it—they were supposed to be _his_ duties, and he resented that Potter had taken them over.

"He hasn't taken over, Blaise," said Draco quietly, sensing what was bothering his friend. "No one could take over what you were to me. He's just being a friend, and…it's nice. He's a genuinely good person, and I think you'd actually quite like him. We should all talk a little later. You know, it was his idea that you come here—I mentioned that I missed you yesterday, and this morning he arranged all of it."

Blaise smiled, reassured of his place with Draco. "I guess I'll thank him at lunch, then. It's really good to see you, Dray."

Draco smiled at the old nickname. "You, too," he said, resting his hand softly on Blaise's. "I've missed you, you know…" Draco said. The familiar scent of Blaise went to his head, making him feel comfortable and safe.

Suddenly, Blaise was kissing him. The lips were warm and soft, gentle and soothing. A hand came to rest behind Draco's head, and Draco moved so that the kiss could deepen. His own hands came to rest on Blaise's chest and neck. Draco let Blaise slip a tongue into his mouth, welcoming the distinct taste of his friend. They slowly moved so they were lying side by side on the bed, though they didn't move past kissing. There was no need for that.

Many minutes passed before each was thoroughly sated, and they parted lips slowly, carefully, trying to hold onto the moment with every breath. Finally, they rested side by side, unmoving, Blaise's arm wrapped protectively around Draco's body. "Merlin, how I missed that," he said softly.

Draco smiled. He knew that's as far as it would go—they hadn't gone further since just before summer break, when they had realized a relationship between them was nearly impossible. Still, the occasional snog was nice and comforting, reminding them each of better times.

"Now," said Blaise, "what was this 'incident' Severus mentioned?"

Draco looked down, unwilling to talk about it but knowing he had to. "I…there's no way to say it, really. Blaise, the Dark Lord called me the other day, but I didn't want to go—really. Still, it was hard. I'm told I was nearly insane and tried multiple times to escape, and other times to kill myself and end the misery, and I once tried to chew my arm off. I don't remember much—just flashes of pain, mostly."

Blaise's arms tightened around Draco, who buried his head in the nook between his friend's head and the bed. "Thank goodness you're alright," he said. "What happened?"

"Harry called Severus and Dumbledore, and then a meeting of the Order was called. While they were in the meeting, it got worse, but Harry was the only one around, and he knew things wouldn't go well if he left me to my own devices. He—actually, I'm not sure what he did. But I woke up thirty-six hours or so later, and the Dark Lord's call was gone and the mark—you remember, the little black circle—is no more than a faint scar on my wrist."

"Did anyone tell you what happened?" asked Blaise, stroking Draco's back soothingly, though he wasn't sure if it was more for his own comfort or Draco's.

Draco shook his head. "No. Either Harry really doesn't remember what happened, or he doesn't want to talk about it. Either way, I don't really care. It doesn't matter much—all I care about is that I don't have to go."

Blaise nodded. "I'm glad you don't. I know you would have been fine, but—well—"

"I know," said Draco quietly. "You worry about me. Thanks, Blaise."

"Any time, Dray."

They two sat for a moment more, but time had crept up on them. "We had better go downstairs," said Draco. "Harry will be up here in a moment, and those wards I put on the door are a piece of cake for him to break. The last time I put wards up…well, it didn't go well for the door."

Blaise chuckled slightly. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"He broke them down—without a wand, mind you, and they were the strongest wards I knew. There must have been fifteen of them on the door, but that didn't stop him. It was quite the show of power."

Blaise looked critically at his friend. There was something Draco wasn't mentioning, he could tell, but he didn't know what. He'd have to observe carefully for a while—he was sure Draco would slip up again, and then he would know what they Slytherin was hiding. He was sure it wouldn't take long. For now, lunch.

Draco and Blaise found Harry sitting quietly working on the puzzle. He didn't even look up when the two walked in, so absorbed in the puzzle.

Draco leaned over, picked up a piece, and placed it in (after two tries), proud of himself for such an accomplishment. Harry had gotten a lot done, it seemed. "You know, we're both supposed to be working on that—leave some for me, won't you?"

Harry looked up sheepishly. "Sorry. I got caught up in the moment. There's still quite a bit to be done, but it shouldn't be too hard."

"That's okay. You have lunch ready, don't you? Don't tell me you were stupid enough to start immediately on the puzzle and we have to wait longer for lunch?"

"No, I fixed it before," said Harry. He got up and walked into the kitchen, getting the sandwiches out and taking out three plates and glasses, filling each with a substantial amount of food. "I take it you two are having a good time," said Harry congenially. Blaise looked at him suspiciously, but took a bite of the sandwich he was holding when Draco ate an entire one without hesitating. Really, were they sure Potter's cooking was any good?

"Yes," said Draco, answering Harry's question. "We're having a great time catching up, aren't we, Blaise?" said Draco, nudging him under the table.

"Oh, yes," said Blaise, smiling as if he had been paying attention the entire time. "Thank you very much for your hospitality," said Blaise, avoiding saying Potter's name out loud. It wouldn't do to call him by his last name, but he certainly wasn't comfortable using his first name, either. "Dray and I are having a marvelous time. Maybe you would like to play a couple rounds of Exploding Snap with us later?" he offered. He knew that was what Draco wanted, and he'd be damned if he refused Draco anything.

Harry smiled, and Draco beamed. "I just might take you up on that offer. Thank you," said Harry graciously. "Maybe after dinner would be a good time." The rest of lunch was eaten with little discussion, though there was the occasional comment from either Harry or Draco. Blaise was content to sit back and observe the two interact for now—it was quite interesting to see how much their relationship had changed, becoming comfortable and friendly. The occasional banter did not go unnoticed, and Blaise noted that old arguments from school were brought up as teasing, not eliciting their previous anger as they once had. It really was quite interesting to see two people who had once been the epitome of childhood enemies to playful, bantering friends.

After dinner (which Blaise had to admit was quite good), they started a game of Exploding Snap in the living room (the puzzle moved carefully out of the way). Draco was soon winning—Blaise wasn't really trying, and Harry was a very bad player, not having been raised around the game. They started another immediately after, with Harry holding his ground only slightly better before and Blaise losing even more interest. Watching the interactions between the two was growing increasingly interesting, he found.

"Hah! Got you!" said Harry triumphantly, finally managing to score a point against Draco, who didn't look phased in the least. Blaise took his turn with as much interest as he could manage, which wasn't much, and settled back in his chair (a quite comfortable one, he found—he hadn't expected anything of Potter's to be comfortable).

"Not so confident now, are you, Potter?" Draco asked as he scored another point. Harry stuck his tongue childishly out at Draco, who returned the gesture by sticking his tongue out and turning his nose up in a condescending manner. Really, Blaise hadn't know Draco would stoop to such levels of immaturity, and it was almost appalling—though quite amusing, he admitted.

"Make your move, Potter. You can't beat that!" Draco taunted.

Harry, looking overly confident, took his turn—and scored three points. He smiled smugly at Draco, who looked surprised, then cocky. "Luck, Potter. Luck. Blaise, your turn." Draco knew Blaise was looking for something, and that, until found, he would not stop acting quiet and sneaky, so Draco only hoped he would find whatever it was soon—even if that meant he would be having a heart-to-heart with Blaise later.

Blaise smiled and sat forward, suddenly looking more interested in the game. "Right, where was I?" Blaise took his turn and scored five points, and Draco knew he had found it. Damn—that also meant he would start losing soon, as Blaise was the king at Exploding Snap.

Later that nigh, Blaise and Draco were sitting in Draco's bed, chatting despite the late hour. Harry had gone to sleep much earlier, but neither boy finally cared.

With a careful look at the door, Blaise quickly erected a silencing charm and locking charm. Then, turning back to Draco, he crossed his arms. "Spill, Dray."

Draco shook his head, eyes innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about, Blaise."

Blaise smiled. He knew when Draco was really innocent and when Draco was just playing games, and it seemed that, for once, Draco had no idea what was going on. Oh, this was a riot. "You mean to tell me you have absolutely no idea about your own feelings?" he asked, mirth in his voice.

Draco's brow furrowed in confusion. "Blaise, are you quite sure you're okay?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. But do you happen to know what I observed today?" he asked, his voice silky smooth. This was when being a Slytherin was truly enjoyable.

"No, I don't," said Draco huffily, "and I would absolutely _love_ it if you would enlighten me."

"You mean to tell me that you are completely innocent when it comes to all those looks you were given Potter? All the smiles and glances? Are you completely oblivious to the way you are acting?"

Draco looked confused for a moment—then it dawned on him. "No…" he whispered. "Don't tell me…"

"Yep!" said Blaise gleefully. "You are completely, head over heels, entirely and one-hundred percent _smitten_ with little Golden Boy! How could you not have noticed the way you were acting?"

Draco sat back. Of course he knew he thought Harry was good looking—and he wasn't completely oblivious to the occasional moments they had been far too close. But he really hadn't thought it showed that much, and he really hadn't thought he was acting the way he obviously was. Oh, and he really hadn't thought it was that serious…but, by the look of glee on Blaise's face, he was."

"Don't worry," said Blaise cheerfully. "I don't think anyone would notice unless he or she spent a considerable amount of time around you and him together and knew how to read you very well. Just be careful around Severus and no one should be able to figure it out for a while."

Draco nodded. "Yeah…I guess…"

"How do you feel about all this, Dray?" asked Blaise, much calmer and more attuned to his friend's feelings now that he had had his moment of glory.

"I'm not sure. I knew he was good looking, and I knew I definitely considered him a friend…there were a couple moments it was almost more, but I had thought I was glad they hadn't occurred…But…are you sure? Do I really look that bad?"

Blaise nodded confidently. "You're smitten, Dray. It's pretty obvious, having known you so long."

"How bad?" he asked.

Blaise thought for a moment. "You remember when Pansy thought she was in love with that Ravenclaw?" Draco nodded, a sick look on his face. Pansy had been enamored with him, unable to stop talking about him. No one had ever thought she would fall for someone outside the house, but they were still happily together, more than six months later. "I'd say about twice as worse as that, maybe three."

"Oh. It's that bad, then?"

"I'd say so. But don't despair, Dray. I think he's as bad as you, if not worse. And no worries—he's just as oblivious as you are of his feelings, if not more. I'm not even sure he knows he's gay yet, though I figure he'd at least have an inkling by now. I'm not sure, though—he might have had a couple boyfriends. I couldn't read that far. Still, he's oblivious of his feelings for you, and they're pretty strong."

Draco looked up sharply. "How can you tell?" he asked. He knew Blaise was good at reading people—probably one of the reasons he did so well in Slytherin—so he didn't doubt Blaise's conclusion. Still, he wasn't sure himself.

"Just the way he looks at you and allows you to get away with little things. Then, there's how considerate he is of you—bringing you a glass of water earlier, making sure you eat, quietly slipping you another pillow in the middle of Exploding Snaps when you started looking tired—and then making sure to slip it to you when I wasn't looking. I knew it had to be him, though. There's what he said when he was doing the puzzle—about wanting you to make sure there was still enough for you to do. And other little things, but nothing else significant."

"Right. This could be bad, couldn't it?"

Blaise nodded, looking a little overly solemn for the occasion. "Yes. You and Boy Who Lived? Who knows what will be thought of it once we get back to school." The look turned to one of mock horror. "Oh, no—what if everyone thinks you've gone soft for dating Golden Boy! The horror!"

Draco threw a pillow at Blaise. "We are _not_ together yet, and I'd say it's fairly unlikely we will be together. Ever. So just get over yourself right now."

"Dray, you know I've never been wrong. You _know_ it. Not when it comes to this."

"Dammit! I know that, Blaise—you don't have to remind me."

Blaise sat back, a confident look on his face. "You're just worried of rejection, Dray. You think he won't want to be with you because of the Dark Lord-thing, that he won't like you because you're a Malfoy. Don't be. Do you think he'd act the way he does if he wasn't able to get around those two little things? If I were you, I'd be much more worried about not letting the knowledge affect you, because I know you tend to act differently once you know you like a guy. And I'd think carefully about what you'll wear tomorrow—you don't want to look like you're trying too hard."

With that, Blaise stood up to go to bed. "I'll see you tomorrow morning—and I'm not sparing you an hour just because we stayed up late talking."

"No goodnight kiss?" asked Draco.

"Nope. You're a taken man, Dray—I wouldn't dare help you cheat on him already."

"We are not going out yet, Blaise!" exclaimed Draco to Blaise's retreating back, careful not to be too loud, as the silencing charm had just been taken down and he most certainly did not wish to be overheard. Blaise, however, said nothing—just kept walking, a confidant swagger to his stride.

"Damn…" muttered Draco before turning on his side to go to sleep, though he doubted he would get much tonight. If Blaise wasn't even willing to give the traditional goodnight kiss they had participated in, regardless of their relationship status, it really just be bad…

**xxx**

A/N: Johnny thinks you should give me an extra reward for making this chapter extra long—it's almost five pages longer than the longest chapter I've written for any story, I believe. So be happy! And review! Please?


	16. Visions of Change

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 16: Visions of Change**

**A/N:** you're all lucky this is here—and it's only here because it was written last week. Today school was bad: lots of expulsions and OSS (12 people, and there are 6 or 7 more that have yet to know of their fate). I might add there are only 300 people in the school, and about 80 are in Middle School and therefore not affected. It was a bad, bad day. Beware the silent hallways. See my journalspace (link on my profile) if you want to depress yourself by learning more (not livejournal). Otherwise, distract yourself by enjoying pretty fanfiction.

**I'm sorry if there's an abnormal number of mistakes—I don't even have the energy to try to correct them right now. My apologies, so please bear with me. Bad, bad day.**

**xxx**

Blaise hugged a nervous Draco and nodded his head to a happily oblivious Harry as he left the Potter household with Severus. Really, eh thought things would go well—though he was a little sad that his relationship with Draco had finally come to a permanent end, he felt this could only go well for both Draco and Harry. Still, he hoped Draco didn't screw it all up by acting too strangely—he had a tendency to do so once he realized his feelings for someone, though it always took him considerably longer to figure out his feelings than it took Blaise to figure them out for him. It was quite amusing, Blaise thought, that someone so confident in every other aspect of his life could be so oblivious to how he felt when other people were concerned. Really, he expected more.

Blaise gave Draco a last wink before disappearing in the fireplace, seeing a faint blush rise on Draco's cheeks before he was completely gone. Draco turned to Harry when Blaise was finally gone and, staring at the floor, stammered, "What should we do now?"

Harry, giving Draco a strange, confused look, replied, "Well, the puzzle needs a bit of work done, and we have some time before the Weasleys arrive. Mrs. Weasley said she'd be a bit late today, since she had so much to catch up on at the house from taking care of us. I told her I'd get everything started, but that still gives us a few hours.

Draco nodded, still looking at the floor. "Right, then. I'll be right back—just have to—I'll be right back," he stammered, cursing his inability to either come up with a good excuse or talk coherently. Harry just gave him a confused look and nodded.

Draco raced upstairs and shut his door behind him. Really, he needed to calm down and act normally. Blaise was right—it wouldn't do any good to act this way. Draco heard a thump downstairs and figured Harry had hurt himself or something else trying to get the puzzle back to its original place in the room. He rolled his eyes, gathered his nerve, and headed back downstairs.

The sight that greeted him was certainly not one he expected: Harry was lying on the ground, shaking and writing in uncontrollable pain, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and murmuring indistinguishable sounds.

Unsure of what was happening, Draco took a moment to breathe deeply and calm himself—he was going to panic if he weren't careful, and that wouldn't be helpful. He knew that getting Severus would very possibly take too long, as it appeared Harry needed help right now. Draco forced the butterflies down and rushed to the potions cabinet. There, he found a pain potion and a calming potion. He wouldn't give them to Harry yet—he wasn't sure what effect they'd have on whatever was happening, and he didn't want to risk anything—and he returned to the room.

Somehow, the situation had gotten dramatically worse. Draco quickly set the potions on the ground and moved towards Harry, worry creasing his forehead. He had no idea what was going on, and it worried him. Harry's scar was bright red, and Harry's hands were reaching up to scratch it, tearing at the skin and causing it to bleed freely. Draco quickly moved to restrain Harry. He didn't trust using a wand, since he still didn't know what was happening, but he was almost sure bodily restraint would be okay, and he didn't like the sight of Harry tearing at his scar.

Harry started whimpering, then moaning in pain and fear. Draco looked around wildly, then back to Harry—what was happening? How could he help? Tears threatened to fall as Draco panicked about what to do. There was likely nothing, he realized, but he couldn't stand this much longer.

Just as Draco was considering taking the risk and calling Severus—who knew what was happening? There was a chance that taking that amount of time wouldn't hurt Harry, wasn't there?—Harry began to calm. Draco, tears still in his eyes, looked back to Harry and studied him. Yes, it seemed Harry was calmer, possibly moving towards sleep now. Draco had carefully maneuvered himself so that he was leaning against the side of the couch and Harry was leaning on top of him so that he could effectively restrain the flailing boy, and now he was stuck in the position, unable to move as Harry had fallen asleep and he didn't have the heart to wake him up, not when he didn't know what had happened.

It seemed he didn't have long to wait, though. Harry was soon stirring out of the sleep, and Draco tensed, not sure how he would take to the position he had found himself in. Harry's eyes finally opened, and he turned slightly to see where he was. He met Draco's eyes briefly, then closed them again, and returned to his original position. He didn't fall asleep again, though, Draco could tell from the breathing pattern—it was too quick and too erratic for Harry to be asleep.

After what must have been twenty minutes, Harry finally made to move out of Draco's arms, then fell gently back into them when he didn't have the energy. Draco used his wand to summon the potions sitting on the table and handed them to Harry. "Thanks," whispered Harry hoarsely, downing the potions without question. He took a moment, then spoke again. "There's another, in the back of the cabinet, if you will—purple with silver flecks, without a label. If you could summon that one…?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded. He was fairly adept at summoning things he had never seen before, something they had only covered just this year in charms. He had never really thought it useful until now, though, unable to see a situation he would need it for. It required a short description that differed it from anything else he might be calling and a general knowledge of its location—not to difficult in the mechanics, but many had problems with it because they couldn't muster the imagination or confidence to picture the item they were summoning and know it was going to work. The bottle quickly came, and Harry drank it, showing obvious and immediate relief.

"Thanks," said Harry again, his voice a little less shaky than before.

"No problem," said Draco, though he was still quite shaken.

"I take it you might want an explanation," said Harry.

Draco shook his head. "Later. Right now, you need some rest. Let me help you onto the couch," he said. Once they had Harry comfortably situated, he said, "Now, tell me what I need to do to help get dinner ready for tonight. You can call out directions to me from here, and I'll follow them to the best of my abilities. I'm sure Mrs. Weasley will be able to fix any mistakes I make."

Harry, looking too tired to put up an argument, nodded. "It's simple, really. Just take the ham out of the freezer so it can defrost, and pull some beans and corn off the second shelf to the right of the sink. Three cans of each should do it—no, you'd better take a fourth one of the beans, as the twins tend to eat a lot of them. And pull out three pans of bread from the freezer, if you will, too. You just have to set all that stuff on the counter. Mrs. Weasley should be able to take care of the rest."

Draco nodded and left once Harry had laid his head back on the armrest and closed his eyes. It was simple to find all the things Harry requested, and he soon had everything ready. Giving it all one last look to make sure it was all there, he returned to find Harry still with his eyes closed on the couch, though he had yet to fall asleep.

Draco sat gingerly on the very end of the couch, next to Harry's feet. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked quietly, not really wishing to disturb Harry too greatly.

"Some water would be nice, and a headache potion." Draco nodded and returned a few moments later with the requested items. Harry downed the potion in one gulp and half the glass of water in the second. Draco waved a wand, and the potion bottle flew to the sink, and the water refilled immediately. Harry smiled gratefully, if a bit tiredly.

"Do you wish to talk now, or later?" asked Draco quietly, but carefully not leaving Harry room to refuse to talk at all.

"Later—after the Weasleys have gone, please. Don't let them know—not yet, at least. They can worry after the dinner has come and gone. For now, I need to rest so I can regain my strength and appear normal when they arrive." There was silence for a moment as both Draco and Harry organized their thoughts. "Thanks, Draco," Harry said at last.

"You're welcome, Harry. Though if you do that to me again, I might be forced to carry out some Slytherin plans of mine. You…you scared me, you know," said Draco, his tone going from joking to serious in only a second.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Draco, looking up from where he had been staring into space. "Now, wait right here while I get a washcloth and some healing salve. You cut your forehead up a bit, and it won't do any good for Mrs. Weasley to arrive and see you hurt."

Harry smiled and let Draco mother him, happy to let someone take care of him after a vision for once. Really, it was quite lonely in the house when no one was around, and, more often than not, a vision came when the house was empty. He was lucky none had occurred these past couple weeks, though he should have known the luck wouldn't hold out. He sighed and lay back as Draco carefully washed the blood off his forehead—he was just glad Draco had the piece of mind to rescue him from tearing his forehead to shreds. Most people looked on in horror before they were able to act, and by then, his forehead was usually a bloody mess that took days to heal and tended to cause people to tread as if on thin ice for days afterwards. Really, it wouldn't be so bad if they didn't make such a big deal out of it happening. But with how quickly Draco had acted, it wouldn't take more than a couple hours to heal, and a quick concealment charm would do wonders when Mrs. Weasley arrived to keep it out of sight. By the time everyone else arrived, it would no more than a trace hidden in the multiple other light scars he had from other such incidents in the past, and no one would know differently. He would tell Dumbledore tomorrow—he just wanted the peace and quiet for now.

When all was taken care of and the washcloth incinerated to hide any evidence, Draco once again sat quietly on the end of the couch. "What can I do to help, Harry?" he asked desperately. He was a little shaken up about what had happened, and he still didn't know what it was, though he was slowly gaining more confidence that Harry was alright and he didn't need to worry. What was more, he got a strong impression that this was a common occurrence, and he wasn't sure if that was comforting or more terrifying, though he was pretty sure it was the latter.

"Just sit and talk for a while," said Harry. "How was your visit with Blaise?"

Draco smiled, realizing that Harry just wanted to sit and listen for a little while. "Great, Harry. Thanks so much for inviting him. We had a marvelous time catching up. It was quite…enlightening, as well," he said, remembering his feelings towards Harry. It seemed this incident might have cured the discomfort and his strange behavior, but he wasn't quite sure. Only time would tell.

"Enlightening? Really? How so?"

Draco smiled. "Oh, no reason that concerns you, really. Though I did find out that everyone thinks I've turned dark and have joined the Dark Lord. That, or they all think I'm dead—apparently, I have effectively gone missing."

Harry smiled. "Really, now? I wonder what they'd all say to see the Boy Who Lived and his supposed arch nemesis sitting next to each other having a decent conversation? Surely, you must have put me under the Imperious and are planning something dastardly for my demise." Harry chuckled.

Draco laughed nervously—that was a bit too close to the truth for him to be comfortable. Of course, it wasn't for Harry's _demise_, per se—quite the opposite, really. Though he was sure many would think he might have placed Harry under the Imperious, and he certainly was planning something dastardly. Draco quickly left that train of thought before it went to far and he began blushing—oh, how his mind could wander.

Mrs. Weasley chose to interrupt the moment by appearing out of the fireplace. Harry sat up quickly and swung his legs about before she could notice, though he still looked pale and as if he were about to collapse. He did a good job of hiding it, though, getting up on shaky legs and hugging Mrs. Weasley, then quickly sitting down again.

"I have everything ready for you in the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley. You're a little early, I see?"

"Yes, we got everything done faster than I thought possible—though it did help that I put Fred and George on different tasks. That always makes things go much quicker and more smoothly." Fred and George were taking a short vacation from running Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and had been helping fix up the Burrow the past week.

"That's wonderful. If it's alright, Draco and I will work on the puzzle while you work," said Harry. Draco glanced in front of him and, sure enough, the puzzle had been returned to its original place. He hadn't noticed it before—Harry must have gotten it there before he collapsed.

"That's fine, dear. You look a little pale, anyways—must be the aftereffects of the past few days. Get some rest, my dear. I'll fix up a dinner like you've never had before. It's good to see you doing better, Draco. I hope you'll join us at dinner. No worries—my boys will be on perfect behavior."

Draco nodded and expressed his gratitude, then turned back to Harry as Mrs. Weasley left. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked quietly, careful so that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't hear—not that she could, with all the racket she was making in the kitchen.

"I'll be fine. If you could sneak a rejuvenating potion out, though, that would be marvelous. I don't usually take this many potions, but I usually have a little more time to recover, and though I don't like taking the rejuvenation one, I think it's necessary for tonight." Draco knew why Harry wouldn't want to take the rejuvenating potion—not only did it tend to be addictive, but it left the drinker even more drained once it had worn off. Draco nodded. He had some private stores of that potion upstairs, so he wouldn't bother Mrs. Weasley getting them out of the cupboard. He returned a moment later, and Harry gave him a grateful look. He downed it, and Draco quickly sent the bottle back to his room before anyone could surprise them and find anything out.

Harry, a bit more energy in him and a perky look plastered on his face, continued to work on the puzzle with all the enthusiasm of an old man playing bingo in the retirement home for the fifth day in a row. Draco actually managed to get two pieces in before Harry found one, and, though he knew it was because Harry wasn't feeling himself, he was still proud of himself.

They didn't have long before Ron and Hermione arrive through the floo. It seemed Ron had to finish up a couple chores around the house before coming, and Hermione had stayed to keep him company and help out. More likely, they had been snogging in Ron's room, but Harry wasn't about to mention it.

"Hey, guys," he said with forced enthusiasm, though the two didn't seem to notice—they were too enamored with each other to notice much about Harry, Draco thought with disgust.

"Hey, Harry," said Hermione.

Ron gave a wary look to Draco before taking Harry up in a friendly hug. "How you been doing, mate? Been having any fun?" he asked, a look directed indiscreetly to Draco.

"Well," lied Harry easily. It seemed he had been doing this for a long time, thought Draco. "Blaise Zabini came over yesterday to catch up with Draco, and we played some Exploding Snap. It was quite fun, actually. He just left a few hours ago."

"You want to go up to your room?" suggested Ron, another look directed towards Draco. Draco rolled his eyes. Could the idiot be any subtler? Really.

"No, I'd rather stay down here. Draco and I have almost finished the puzzle, and I'd rather not leave and discover Draco finished it while I was away. That, and I'd rather not subject him to your mother all by himself." That, and Harry was obviously too exhausted to move up to his room, despite the rejuvenation potion, which had yet to fully kick in. Draco consciously did not roll his eyes—if only his supposed friends would pay attention, they'd see that. Draco almost wondered at his overly-protective attitude, then dismissed it. Now that he'd had that conversation with Blaise, nothing of that nature really surprised him. He'd just file it away in the 'unexplained emotions concerning Harry' category he had made in the back of his mind.

Ron nodded in agreement to Harry's decision, though he still sent a glare to Draco. Really, he should think before glaring at anyone ever again. It was embarrassing, almost, and certainly laughable. Draco held back a snicker, covering it up with a cough, and placed another puzzle piece into its right spot.

Harry looked down and placed another piece in—they only had about fifty more to go, Draco thought, and it was getting easier to find pieces. Ron and Hermione respectfully did not join in, though he could tell Granger was itching to place a piece in. It seemed Harry had already warned them against touching any puzzle pieces, for which Draco was grateful. The last puzzle they had completed was currently hanging in the foyer, having been glued together within the hour and framed.

Draco triumphantly placed four more pieces (and Harry another seven or eight) before too many people had arrived for them to politely continue the puzzle. Remus was one of the first, embracing Harry in a warm hug. Draco was just glad the rejuvenating potion had finally kicked in all the way, giving Harry enough energy to endure all the friends and family that had gathered. Draco considered passing another potion on to Harry before the beginning of dinner—he knew Harry wouldn't want it, but he'd need it to make it through the night.

As dinner was being called, Draco pulled Harry aside. "Back of the cupboard, behind the towels. You need it," he said gently. It was a slightly stronger dose, but Harry was only looking worse as time went on. He was using all his energy to keep up appearances—he was very good at it, but it took a lot of work, and he wasn't going to last much longer. Harry nodded thankfully and went to the restroom, returning before anyone even noticed he was gone. Draco knew no one had caught their conversation, and was incredibly proud to be a Slytherin at that moment. Who ever said Slytherins were heartless bastards clearly had never seen a Slytherin around someone he (or she) cared about—clearly, they took care of their own. Slytherin was more of a family than any of the other houses, Draco knew. They just didn't advertise it.

The dinner went smoothly enough, the twins not even daring to pull a prank with Draco sitting between Mr. Weasley and Harry and across from Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley kept sending glares at the twins, checking anything she thought might have received their 'special touch' before Draco laid his hands on it. Draco, despite resenting all the attention he was getting as a result, was quite grateful—he really didn't want to end up like last time.

Finally, all the Weasleys, Granger, Lupin, Dumbledore and any other guests (Draco hadn't really tried to catalogue all of them, for he was too concerned watching Harry to make sure he was alright) were gone. Harry collapsed tiredly on the couch, and Draco, without a word, began cleaning the kitchen. Once he had set the dishes to cleaning themselves and the other appliances to tidying the kitchen (charms class was useful for something, at least), he returned to Harry's side. Really, he hadn't been this protective until Blaise had made him realize his feelings—now he felt as if it were natural to worry and fuss this much.

Harry had stretched out on the couch and was laying with his eyes closed, though, again, he wasn't asleep. "I would think you'd be far off in dreamland by now," said Draco quietly, sitting on the end of the couch.

"No," said Harry quietly. "I'd be having nightmares if I did, so I'm trying to hold off."

Draco nodded thoughtfully, though he realized a little late that Harry couldn't see the gesture. He was pretty sure he had some mild Dreamless Sleep potion…but, once he thought about it, Harry probably didn't want it. He was already resentful of having to take two rejuvenation potions because of their addictive qualities, and Dreamless Sleep was at least twice as bad. He'd see if Harry requested one—if not, he'd keep quiet.

"Will talking about it help?" asked Draco quietly.

Harry nodded, his eyes still closed. "A little, yes. Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts." Draco remained quiet, waiting patiently for Harry to talk.

"For a few years, now, I've been getting visions. They come through my scar—through my connection to Lord Voldemort. Actually, I'm surprised it's been so long since I've had one—the last one was about two days before you arrived. Usually they occur about twice a week, sometimes three times. Once I had one every night—that week was bad. Anyways, they come for one of two reasons. Sometimes, Voldemort is running on high emotions, and this sparks a vision—sometimes anger, sometimes joy, sometimes malice. Once, I got one of…passion." Harry shuddered, and Draco grimaced. "That was gross. The second way the come, much more common, is that Voldemort wants to torture me. He realized after a very short time that we had the connection, and, since then, he's been sending visions to me to manipulate me." Harry paused, looking as if he were going to cry, and Draco placed his hand on Harry's. "I—I made a mistake, once, and acted on a fake vision. He created it, broke down my barriers. I—a lot of people died that night. Including Padfoot, my godfather, Sirius. It's my fault he died…" A few tears slipped down Harry's face, and Draco squeezed his hand. He was seeing a side of Harry he never knew existed, and it was tearing him to pieces. He wanted to do so much more than hold Harry's hand for comfort, but he wasn't sure what there was he could do—he didn't even know what to begin to say.

Harry sniffed and forced past his tears to continue the story. "Anyways, I tell Dumbledore about the visions now before I act upon then, 'cause I don't want to make another mistake like the one that got Padfoot killed. Voldemort sent me a vision tonight. They're starting to take on more meaning—I think he wants to make sure I'm affected by them, by their deaths. Each is different in details, but always the same result. Some people die—sometimes muggles, sometimes not—in horrible ways that are unimaginable by anyone not that evil thing…"

Harry paused, looking as if he were going to cry. Quietly, Draco asked, "What was the dream tonight? If you tell me, I may be able to share the load, but don't feel it's necessary—don't tell me if you don't wish to."

"No, you're right. I need to talk about it, to get it off my chest. I just needed to think for a moment. Tonight, the family was mixed—a muggle, a wizard, and their child. I think he was magical—he set off a few sparks at one point, I believe, though it could have been something else. Anyways, they killed the father first, the magical one, making him beg for his wife and child's lives. Then the mother. Then they wounded the baby—not less than three months old, but no more than six—but they didn't kill him. Just orphaned him."

Draco was horrified. "Why would they do such a thing?" he asked, incredulous.

"To send a message. It's—it's very reminiscent of my situation, with both my parents dead. An orphan, sent to live with relatives. I wouldn't be surprised if Voldemort researched enough into it to find a boy who would be sent to live with terrible relatives, actually, though I hope that's not the case. He was within a couple months of how old I was…" The tears were flowing freely down his face, now, and Draco finally got the courage to pull Harry into a warm embrace. He made no noises of comfort or soothing movements—he just held Harry until all the tears were gone. He didn't know what else to do.

Harry finally fell asleep, still curled up in Draco's arms. He didn't have the heart to move the sleeping boy, so Draco arranged himself so he was comfortable and closed his eyes to sleep. Unconsciousness came more quickly than he would have imagined, for which he was grateful—he certainly didn't want to stay up all night thinking of what he had heard.

What felt like only minutes later, Draco woke to a struggling Harry in his arms. Draco, aware that Harry was still asleep, held him tightly, trying to calm him down. If it got much worse, he was going to wake Harry, but it didn't—soon, Harry was resting quietly once again, his head against Draco's chest and a hand clutched loosely in Draco's shirt. Draco smiled and went back to sleep.

**xxx**

Harry woke up that morning to find he felt more rested than usual after a vision. He was warm and comfortable, which was also strange—and he was moving up and down, ever so slightly, at regular intervals. Oh, wait—Harry opened his eyes slowly, almost afraid of what he would find. He closed his eyes quickly and opened them again, making sure it was real—of course, it was.

Draco was sleeping peacefully underneath Harry, a small smile upon his face. He was stretched out on the couch and, with a bit of magic, it appeared that Draco had enlarged it slightly to fit two boys comfortably. Still, the added width did not encourage Harry from sleeping anywhere but on top of Draco, his head tucked neatly under Draco's chin and an arm resting on Draco's shoulder, holding the shirt lightly.

Harry looked up at Draco's face—it looked so calm, with that small smile playing upon his lips. He smelled strongly of cinnamon chocolate, which was quite comforting. Harry moved his available hand—the other was tucked somewhere underneath Draco's body, Harry thought, though he couldn't quite feel it—to brush a strand of hair out of Draco's eyes. The smile deepened a little, and Draco breathed out a content sigh. Harry let a small smile play on his lips before he realized what he was doing and quickly returned his hand to its original place. He needed to get out of this.

Harry moved a little, careful not to wake the sleeping boy beneath him, to assess their situation. Their legs were tangled in an intricate mess, and one arm was wrapped around Harry's waist, while the other was lifted above Draco's head, with Draco's face leaning into it ever-so-slightly. Harry knew there was no way he could extricate himself from this mess without waking Draco, and, frankly, it looked like Draco needed it. Anyways, he was feeling sleepy again, as well as strangely content, and he wouldn't mind closing his eyes and getting a little more rest—he wouldn't mind it one bit.

**xxx**

Draco woke a few hours later to find Harry still sleeping on his chest. He smiled sleepily, studying Harry's calm face while he had a chance. All traces of the vision and nightmare had vanished, leaving a soft, innocent look on Harry's face. His hair fell disheveled about his head, framing his closed eyes and making him look much younger than Draco knew him to be. Unconsciously, Draco moved the hand around Harry's waist so that it was lightly stroking up and down Harry's back, the motion soothing him as much as it was meant to sooth Harry.

Slowly, as the minutes passed in which Draco observed the sleeping boy in his arms, Draco grew aware of the erection forming under his trousers, which were far too thin to hide anything from Harry should he wake up. Panicking slightly, he quickly thought of the worst thing he could come up with—Dumbledore and Minerva doing it in the Prefect's bathroom, Minerva in lingerie. And then, in his imagination, Snape walked in and—oh, that was far enough, Draco thought, jumping off that train of thought before it went too far.

Draco didn't fall back asleep, but Harry didn't wake up for quite a bit longer, and Draco didn't exactly want to move. Despite Harry's weight, he was quite content to lay underneath him forever.

Finally, Harry stirred to his senses. He moved his head slightly so that it was resting on the other side of his face, leaving the reddish impressions from Draco's shirt facing upwards. He moved his hand to rub the tiredness out of his eyes, then opened them slowly. He was immediately greeted by Draco's eyes, a bright, clear silver in the morning.

"What time is it?" he asked quietly, not wishing to disturb the peace but knowing Draco could see the muggle clock far better than he could at that moment.

"A little past eleven," answered Draco. "I'm surprised you slept in this late."

Harry made a noncommittal answer. "Snape should be here around three," said Harry, his voice still a bit sleepy and breathy. It made Draco's breath catch, and he quickly forced the thought of Dumbledore and Minerva back into his head.

"We have time, then," he said, not exactly sure what that time was for. "If you want to go back to sleep, feel free," he said quietly, seeing that Harry was still quite tired from the day before, despite the sleep he had gotten.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you. I know my nightmares can be violent," Harry said, not showing any signs of going back to sleep despite his closed eyes, but not showing any of moving, either.

"There was only one, and it was mild," said Draco quietly. He suddenly realized his hand was still continuing the up and down motion on Harry's back, and he quickly stopped. Oh, this could be bad.

"No, please continue," said Harry, his eyes still closed.

Or maybe it wouldn't be bad, Draco thought, restarting the motion immediately and smiling a little, knowing Harry's eyes were closed and he was unable to see the grin.

The two lay like that for quite a bit longer, Harry's eyes closed and Draco's studying the boy on top of him. Finally, Harry moved to get up, though it took a considerable amount of effort—not because Harry didn't have the energy, but because he really didn't want to leave the warm comfort of Draco's arms. He wasn't sure what the blonde had done, but he hadn't ever slept that well after a vision, and it was relaxing.

Harry slowly got up, Draco making the necessary movements to untangle their legs, but not much else. Eventually, Harry mustered the effort to slide out of Draco's arms, immediately regretting the loss of warmth but knowing that, once the move had been made, returning to that embrace was impossible. Harry sighed and made his way to the kitchen to fix a very late breakfast—it was well after noon now, and the breakfast was probably more of an afternoon tea than anything else. He put on the kettle of water to boil and pulled a few ingredients from the cupboards to make biscuits. Once the biscuits were in the oven, he pulled some fruit from the refrigerator and chopped it up into bite-size portions, then pulled out the jam and placed it on the counter.

While he worked, he examined his feelings. He knew he should be at least a little disturbed at this morning, but he couldn't find the energy to muster the feelings. Sure, it was a bit strange, but Harry didn't really mind. If it meant he got the best sleep of his life, including vision-free nights, Harry wasn't going to complain. Certainly he had never had such a good sleep after a vision, and, especially since Sirius died, any good sleep was fairly uncommon. That had to be the best sleep he had had in at least two years, probably more.

As Harry thought of Sirius, his thoughts almost immediately darkened. If only he hadn't believed that vision—his godfather would be right here with him, keeping him company and complaining of being cooped up. That was probably why he didn't complain himself—it was the last place his godfather had stayed, and it was the closest connection to him he had. Everything, from the damn painting in the wall to the dusty memories in the attic had once been his godfathers—or, at least, related to his godfather in some form or fashion. Briefly, Harry wondered why the painting no longer put up the screaming racket she once had, but dismissed it quickly—she had never been quite the same since Remus had told her of Sirius's death. She had screamed constantly for two days straight, then fell quiet. She only let out the occasional scream now, maybe once a month, probably less, and she almost always fell quiet immediately afterwards. Harry almost felt sorry for her—Sirius had been the last of her family, despite her strong dislike for the ways he had chosen.

Harry forced back the tears as he thought about Sirius again. Really, it wouldn't do to be crying. Not until he could get to the couch in the attic, at least. These past few days had been relatively guilt-free, but now that he started having visions again, the reality of the world came crashing upon him once again, and he wasn't sure he would be able to old back if he started crying.

Harry wasn't aware of Draco's presence until a hand was resting lightly on his arm, giving all the comfort he needed in a simple touch. Draco handed him a kerchief and turned around without saying anything, sparing Harry the embarrassment that would have come had he asked what was wrong.

After he had calmed down somewhat, Harry turned back to Draco, who had taken a seat at the counter, and smiled. "Thanks—you know, for taking care of me and all. If you'd call Dumbledore and ask him to come with Severus, but change the time until dinner for both of them, that would be helpful."

Draco nodded without a word and turned. Harry could hear the conversations from the kitchen—first with Severus, then with Dumbledore. Draco didn't let on any more information than he needed to, Harry could tell, for which he was grateful. Both probably knew what it was about already, but it was nice not to have to hear them all talking about it in another room.

When Draco returned, the biscuits were ready, as was the tea. Breakfast was consumed in relative silence, with Harry gathering his thoughts for the meeting later and still trying to dissect his feelings, and Malfoy brooding about Merlin-knew-what.

**xxx**

Dumbledore and Severus came and went, leaving more informed about Voldemort's movements but no more enlightened as to what the plans were. When they were finally gone, Harry once again collapsed on the couch, which had been returned to its normal size much earlier that day. Finding it much more comfortable when a little longer and a little wider, Harry waved his wand and the couch was back to the size it had been that morning.

Harry curled up on one end despite the length of the couch and stared into the dancing flames. It wasn't like it was cold—far from it—but the flames were needed for floo travel, and they were wizarding flames that gave off no heat. They were just as comforting and hypnotizing as normal flames, though, and Harry was soon deep in thought. His mind wandered from subject to subject, lighting on nothing important, but keeping busy so as not to dwell on more depressing subjects.

Draco came a few moments later to sit down on the couch, a careful six inches between himself and Harry. He didn't say anything, but let Harry think instead. Sometime after midnight, they each moved to their separate rooms, still not a word said between the two. The couch was left in its enlarged state, both too tired to return it to normal. Harry had already decided that sleeping in late would be okay tomorrow, since Dumbledore had decided to forego his usual visit due to his visit today. Harry was quite relieved for the change—somehow, living in such a regulated schedule had been almost depressing, though it was only now that he had strayed from the normal schedule that he realized it. Everything had always happened the same days—he even had all the meals for every day figured out, for the most part, and it had been depressing, only adding to the feeling of oppression. Now, with Draco about—well, the schedule was certainly changed up a bit, and it was relaxing.

Harry slept that night without any nightmares, though it certainly wasn't as good a rest as he had had the previous night, for which he was inexplicably saddened. Really, he hoped he'd figure out his feelings soon, or he was bound to do something stupid.

**xxx**

A/N: Look! Another abnormally long chapter! (For me, at least, that is.) Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed the fluffy bit of cuteness. I know—no kiss! But it just wasn't time, you'll see. Though even I admit it's getting a bit late in the story for no romance…A thought came to mind a couple days ago: if you have any questions regarding the timeline (it's mostly day-to-day, chapter-to-chapter, but it varies a bit) or any other questions regarding the events that have transpired, please ask. I will not answer, however, any questions about future romance between our two lovebirds.

Johnny asks that you all review as soon as you can, for he is anxious to see what you think about the chapter—and though he says he hated the fluffy-ness of it, we all know it was his favorite part to write.

**GO VISIT THE FORUM (link on profile page) SO WE CAN HAVE INTERESTING DISCUSSIONS AND I CAN ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS YOU HAVE!**


	17. No Added Spices

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 17: No Added Spices**

A/N: I still don't know how to play Exploding Snap. Forgive me.

**xxx**

Harry was up only slightly earlier than he had planned, and decided to work on the puzzle for a while. It was just after ten o'clock, and he was happy to say he felt rested and sufficiently recovered from his vision. Really, he must have grown soft or something, because he hadn't remembered the repercussions of a vision being that bad in a long time. On the other hand, maybe it was the two rejuvenation potions he had taken. Usually, he wouldn't have had the choice but to be found sickly and hurt—someone usually happened along eventually, and if it turned out that no one dropped by, Harry was usually able to recover by the time anyone showed up. No vision had ever had effects that long lasting, despite the lack of following nightmares, and it was slightly worrisome.

Harry sat at the puzzle, fairly confident Draco wouldn't be up for another hour or so. He didn't work too ardently on the puzzle, as they were close to finishing, and he didn't want to finish it without Draco. After about half an hour, he started breakfast, then went to wake Draco up.

"Morning, sunshine!" exclaimed Harry brightly, throwing the curtains back. He had given Draco his hour, and now he was bored and needed company.

"Dammit, Potter, how can you be so perky so early? Perkiness of that magnitude should be outlawed…"

"Draco Malfoy, I will have you know it is fifteen minutes past eleven—hardly an early hour. How do you manage at school?"

"Blaise," came the muffled reply from the pillow.

"Ah, Blaise to the rescue. I should have known, of course. It makes sense. Anyways, you need to be more of a morning person—mornings are possibly the most beautiful time of day, you know."

"Not if you like sleep, they're not," muttered Draco, but he moved to get up. Some things just weren't worth arguing, and it appeared sleep was one of those things when it came to Harry.

"Breakfast will be ready in a few moments, and I expect you downstairs before I've finished the bacon—that gives you about five minutes," Harry said, bouncing perkily out the room.

Upon finding himself downstairs, dressed for all his lack of effort, Draco was immediately greeted with the sight of a breakfast plate stacked high with food, looking as if it were about to spill over onto the counter. "Really, Potter, I think I'll re-nickname you 'Perky Potter.' It's much more fitting, I believe."

Harry beamed. "Now that's much better than 'Pottty' and the like."

Draco groaned, rolling his sleep-laden eyes. "It's not supposed to be a compliment, Potter," he grumbled.

Harry smiled brightly. "Really? Because I like being perky, and I find it quite complimentary."

"What has you in such a good mood, anyways? You weren't ever this perky before, I swear. I would have hexed you if I hadn't been too tired to do so. Still am, actually, so you're quite lucky," Draco grumbled, sitting down to help himself to the entirely-to-large pile of food in front of him.

Harry, wishing to drop the subject (no matter how amusing it was to watch Draco in the mornings, for he was obviously not a morning person) and talk of something much more exciting, said, "Well, I think we're going to finish the puzzle this morning, which makes me happy. And we'll probably have the day to ourselves, which is nice—usually Dumbledore comes, but he decided that yesterday's visit was enough. And anyways, it's just a nice day, though they do forecast rain for the evening—it seems England is returning to its normal, gloomy, rainy self."

"You know, I happen to like the rain," muttered Draco, taking an apathetic bite of his toast.

"I know. I'm not saying the rain itself is bad. I'm just saying that it tends to get quite gloomy. Anyways, I happen to like the sun—there's not a lot that can hide in the light, and it always feels like there's more hope if the sun is shining."

"Right," said Draco a bit apathetically. "Perky Potter to the rescue, with the help of his sidekick, the bright, happy orb we all know as the sun. Together they rise early in the morning to defeat the evil-doers while they're all asleep in their jammies. I bet the Dark Lord has pink ones with little duckies on them—it would be perfectly ironic and very fitting."

Harry chuckled. "You're much funnier in the mornings, Malfoy. Maybe it's because you're unable to think of an adequate insult as a retort."

Draco grumbled something unintelligible, then decided he was better off not speaking for the rest of the day. He finished most of the food Potter had put on his plate (with a bit of effort), which gained him a grin of approval.

The two cleaned up—rather, Harry cleaned up while Draco watched—and headed out to finish the puzzle. With luck, Harry thought, they would be finished by one o'clock, as it was only just noon now. That would give them the rest of the day to relax. He certainly wasn't going to clean today—that was reserved for later in the week. Today was a day off from the normal strains of life. Or, well, that was his goal—who knew what the day offered.

Finally, the last piece was put into place—Harry was deliberately slow in reaching for it, taking an especially long time with his last piece so Draco would have time to get to it. He suspected Draco knew, but that wasn't the point—the point was that Draco put in the last piece and was quite proud for it.

As they looked at the finished puzzle, one of the American Statue of Liberty, with some city faded into the background—it really held no significance to either Harry or Draco; they just liked the puzzle—Harry said, "We should be getting our school owls today, I believe. It's a little less than two weeks until the beginning of term, and Dumbledore mentioned something about it. Of course, there's a chance ours won't actually be delivered by owl—it's often dangerous to have owls flying in and out of here, though I suppose the occasional one or two wouldn't be terribly bad."

"Mmmhmm," replied Draco apathetically, not really paying attention to what Harry was saying. He was too proud of the puzzle—sure, Harry had let him have the last piece, but it had still been the last piece.

"Hey, we should glue this one together, too," said Draco. "I think I know a spell that might work, too. We used it when I was a kid and I wanted to play with sticking things together. It means we can frame it, but we can later take off the spell if we want, so we can do it again. Anyways, it would mean we wouldn't have to deal with the nasty smell of that muggle glue."

Harry chuckled. "What's the spell, then? Let's try it for now—we can always glue it the muggle way later."

Draco muttered a few words and waved his wand in a simple circle, then touched his wand to the puzzle. "That should do," he said. Harry tested the puzzle by lifting a corner up and found it worked quite well—not only did it dry immediately, but it worked better than the puzzle glue did and avoided any chance of a sticky mess left over; there was no warped shape, and the edges didn't bend under pressure. It was as stiff as a board.

"Good, I'll just get a frame for this, then. I think there's one in the attic its approximate size, and we can adjust it with a simple spell to have it fit better." Draco nodded and waited for Harry to return with the frame. He couldn't wait to start the next one—the girl with the magical flute, if he remembered correctly. It was a truly beautiful puzzle, he thought.

Harry returned after a few minutes with a frame in hand. A few spells later, and the puzzle was hanging on the wall next to the previous one they had completed. "This may have turned out to be a good idea," said Harry. "I wanted more decorations and such that weren't of old people I didn't know from Sirius's family, but I wasn't sure what to do, and I don't like shopping for paintings much. This will work out fine, though. We can start on the other one a little later, if you'd like."

"What do you propose we do in the meantime?" asked Draco.

"Play Exploding Snap, maybe. Or we can go up in the attic—that might be a change of atmosphere we need, and I don't think you've seen it yet."

Draco decided not to mention the time he'd walked in on Harry and agreed to visit the room. They brought Exploding Snap with them, and Draco prepared himself to pretend to see the attic for the first time. Draco followed Harry upstairs and over to the couch situated on the far end of the attic. He took the time to examine the area, which he hadn't had a chance to do before. It wasn't as dusty as most attics were—probably because Potter cleaned it regularly, he thought. The stuff seemed to be organized into relatively neat piles and categories. Draco, on his way, pulled a photo album out of a box.

Harry paused and turned, a soft look falling over his face. "I had forgotten that, really," he said as he saw what Draco was holding. "I should retrieve some pictures of it for the halls. Remy told me that was from school days—Sirius was apparently obsessed with cameras for a year or so, and he continued to take pictures after the obsession died. There's my mum," Harry said, pointing to a young redhead with green eyes like Harry's. She was waving enthusiastically at the camera—obviously a first year. "Remy said she hadn't yet met my father or the gang, so she didn't have any deep hate for them yet—the only picture of her until sixth year, you'll note, when she and dad finally mended their ways, for the most part, and began dating. That's my dad, in the next picture, standing with Sirius. They hadn't met Remy yet, or the rat, Peter. Peter betrayed my parents later—but that's another story."

Draco flipped about a third of the way through the book, finding a picture of everyone standing together. Next to it was the caption, _L-R: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Ne'er-do-wells of the best kind. _

"So your parents and his friends are the famous Mauraders?" Draco asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know about them?" asked Harry curiously.

"Most people in the school know about them, actually. A sort-of Hogwarts legend. Supposedly the best pranksters since the school's founding—I hear the Weasleys always admired them the most, called them Heroes and Gods of all sorts, or something along those lines. Most people, you'd find, actually know about them. I guess if you took the time to look around, you could easily figure out who they were, but no one really cares to look, so no one really knows."

"Severus would know—he was their worst enemy, apparently, along with your father, though he was a few years older and not as involved in some of the pranks."

Draco smiled a little. "I could imagine that, I guess."

Draco closed the book and placed it gently where he had found it. He might explore that a bit later, just for fun. Exploding Snap forgotten, he continued to explore the items in the attic.

"Be careful—I'm pretty sure there are still some dark items left over from when the Blacks were still in full power of the house," said Harry, though he didn't really look as if he meant it.

"Look, here are some old albums," said Draco. "My father used to talk about these." He lifted the cover, coughing as some undiscovered dust found its way into the air.

"I might need to clean a bit more thoroughly next time," Harry mentioned as he joined Draco to look at the albums. "Look, that one has to be at least thirty years old," he said, pointing at one with a faded cover that was nearly unreadable. "This is pretty cool. I think there's a phonograph over there, too. Let's see if we can't get one to play."

Harry cast a quick cleaning charm on the phonograph and the diskette, then placed it on. He picked up what looked like might play the music, a long stick with a needle-looking thing at the end, and placed it about midway on the record. Nothing happened. Draco scowled, then looked around. After a bit of rummaging around the body of the phonograph, looking for anything that might make it play, a soft melody drifted out. Whatever he had done, it had been the right thing.

Draco cast a small spell that allowed him to control the volume with his wand and raised the volume a little. The words drifted out of the melody, which had begun somewhere near the middle of the song. Harry recognized neither the melody nor the words, and the music was certainly outdated, but it was nice.

Harry made his way over to the couch and sat down, letting Draco come to sit on the other end. It was a relatively small couch, so there wasn't much room left between them, but Harry didn't mind. He turned and pulled his legs up on the couch, taking up the rest of the room. His feet touched Draco lightly, and Draco could barely take his attention off the pressure, though he doubted Harry even noticed or meant anything by it. Really, this was such a childish way to react, Draco thought, though he couldn't help tensing up when Harry's feet relaxed a little and found a more comfortable pressure.

"So, Exploding Snap, right?" asked Draco. Harry nodded his agreement, and they were soon playing the game, smoke drifting into the air of the attic, gathering near the ceiling and remaining there.

"Really," Harry said just after Draco had taken a turn, gloating his score of three points, "You can be such a child sometimes."

"You do, too, Potter," said Draco, a wide grin on his face. "You're just jealous that I'm winning." Harry stuck his tongue out and took his turn, not even scoring one point. Draco laughed, and Harry pouted, rolling his eyes at the same time.

**xxx**

Long after the game of Exploding Snap was finished, the two still sat in the attic, enjoying each other's company in relative silence. Finally, Harry spoke out. "You know, everyone says my godfather and dad used to come up here all the time. Remy says they used to get into all kinds of trouble."

"Really?" said Draco politely, still staring off into the distance; he didn't really see where the conversation was going, but he could tell it was important to Harry, who wouldn't have brought it up if he hadn't wanted to talk about it.

"The couch was already in place when I moved in, actually, and the space was already cleared away. You could tell it was used a bit…I come up here to be closer to them."

"You miss them, don't you?" Draco asked. He brought his eyes to look at Harry, trying to read some emotion off the Gryffindor, but Harry was as guarded as any well-trained Slytherin.

"I didn't really know them," said Harry softly, emotion finally leaking through in his voice, "so I don't know how I could miss them. But I do. I miss all of them—except Remy, of course, because I see him so often. I would miss Pettigrew, too, except that would be bad of me—but I want to miss him, too. Not who he is now, but who he was then—he was a friend to my family at some point in time, after all. I don't know what changed him. I hate him for what he did, but I can't explain it—it's like I miss who he was, the friend he should have been…"

"I don't understand what you're saying," said Draco, rather bluntly.

"Neither do I," whispered Harry.

"Harry, what's wrong?" asked Draco.

"Nothing, really. Just a bit tired," said Harry, avoiding Draco's eyes.

"Potter, you have to be the worst liar on the face of this planet. Spill it, Potter, or I'll be forced to take it out of you."

Harry looked up and forced a weak smile. "It's Sirius," he said, tears in his eyes. "I miss him, and it was my fault he died. If I just had ignored that vision—or talked to Dumbledore, or maybe used those stupid mirror things he gave me to get in touch with me—they were these magical mirrors my dad and he used to use to get in touch, and I should have used them, but I was mad and scared and angry and I just couldn't help it and—and—"

Harry burst into tears, sobs wracking his chest. Draco was surprised—a moment ago, they had been enjoying the silence, and now Harry was bawling on the couch and he had no idea what to do. So he took one of Harry's hands in both of his own, hoping to be able to help. "It's alright…I mean, come on—how could you have known that the Dark Lord could manipulate visions so easily? There's no way you would have been able to tell the difference, not without large amounts of training."

Harry just started crying harder, and Draco wasn't sure what he had done. Finally, he sobbed out, "No! That's just it—I was supposed to be training with Snape to _prevent_ such an occurrence—but I was too stupid and childish, and he was such a greasy bat, hating me because of my father and my fame, and I just wasn't able to cope with that—so I gave up. I quit, and Siri died. It was all my fault; don't you see?

"No, I don't see," said Draco. "But I understand that you blame yourself. I do, too, you know—not for Sirius, but for other things. Sometimes I even blame myself for my father—if I were what he wanted, would that make everything better? If I did everything he told me to, would that solve things? Sometimes, I think it would. You know, just to conform and be liked for what everyone wants you to be?"

"You're not at fault for what your father wants," said Harry, sniffing and drying his eyes with his free hand. "You're better without him…"

"And you're not at fault for you godfather's death. He was rushing to save you—and though you thought you were doing the same thing, that's what counts. He died knowing you loved him and would do anything for him; don't beat yourself up over it, Potter—then there will be nothing left for me to provoke."

Harry let out a small chuckle that turned into a cough. "Right, Malfoy. Whatever you say."

"Good. I'm glad you agree," said Draco. "I know how you feel, though—like it's your fault all the time. Just ignore it; it will go away eventually."

"Does it?" asked Harry quietly.

"That's what I keep telling myself," said Draco. Both Harry and Draco laughed morbidly. "And hey, think of it this way. You had a very loving, very caring godfather, for a little while, at least—that's worth something."

Harry smiled. "I guess so—but I didn't have parents, either. He was really all I had—my relatives still don't care much for me, and he was the closest I had to a parent."

"I know a little of how you feel, actually—Severus is my godfather, and he's the only parent I've ever known. He's the only one who really cared about me, that is—certainly more than Lucius and Narcissa, combined. I couldn't imagine losing him—I'm not quite sure what I would do."

"You said your mom loved you, though," said Harry, a little confused. He leaned forward unconsciously, leaning into the warmth radiating from Draco's body.

"She did—but it was mostly on the surface. I'm pretty sure that, if my father passed on, she would have pressed the same standards upon me. She was only nice because he was so mean—but it was superficial. You could tell in little ways, like how she didn't protest when he beat me—she only comforted me afterwards, but she'd always watch on stoically, or sometimes encouraging."

"Wow. I…I didn't realize that."

"Not many people do. My friends certainly never cared—at least, not the people I called my friends. I was forced to take them on as friends, really; Lucius told me who to befriend, and that was that. When I wasn't able to befriend you per his requested, it was bad—but that was a long time ago."

Harry leaned in a little closer, resting his free hand on top of Draco's. "I'm sorry. I see why you disliked me so suddenly, actually."

Draco laughed a little, purposefully not focusing on his hands. "Yeah, that was most of it, I guess. That, and once you turned down my friendship, my father insisted that I be your worst enemy—not that it was hard."

Harry gave a dry laugh. "So, you were saying?" he asked.

"Well, those people I were forced to befriend—I never really got along with them. I still don't. Sure, I have my laughs, and I enjoy hanging out with some of them…but they're not my friends. Our relationship is mostly business and show, nothing else—a way for our parents to be more interconnected than they already are. It's…habit, in a way. Blaise is the only one that ever stepped outside that relationship—he's the only one that ever wanted to actually know who I was, and the only one I feel actually appreciates my presence. I guess that's part of the reason I liked being around him. Most of the reason, actually."

"Well, now you have more friends, Draco," said Harry, a warm smile on his face. "Between Blaise, Severus and myself, you should be just fine."

Draco smiled. "So that's it, then? We're no longer enemies?"

Harry pulled back a little, leaning into the cushions of the couch and relaxing. "We haven't been enemies for a while now, but we're certainly friends now."

"I wonder when that happened…?" mused Draco aloud.

"Don't ask me. I certainly never noticed the transition." A confused look suddenly came over Harry's face. "Hey—how did we get to this subject? I thought we were talking about me a while ago…?"

Draco smirked. "Potter, not everything can be about you. Actually, most everything is about me, believe it or not."

Harry laughed. "Right, Malfoy. Whatever you want to believe. Anyways, thanks for getting my mind off things—even if it was at your expense. I guess…well, everything had kind of calmed down, and I was starting to think again. And whenever I think about Sirius, it's a bad thing—I always get depressed."

"Potter, that's where you're wrong—it's just you thinking in general that's bad. It has nothing to do with your godfather. I mean, do you even have a brain to think with?" Harry stuck his tongue out at Draco, not caring about how immature he was being. "My point exactly. Someone with a brain would have actually tried coming up with a retort instead of resorting to such childish measures," said Draco haughtily. "How old are you, anyways? You're tongue? Please, save me."

"Whatever, Malfoy," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "You want to play another game of Exploding Snap?"

"No," said Draco after a moment of thinking. "I'd rather savor the last victory for a little while. Anyways, it gets old beating you so regularly."

"Then what do you propose we do?" asked Harry.

As Draco thought, his mind wandered to his hands, which were so warmly intertwined with Harry's. He wondered if Harry realized how tempting he was being, how flirtatious all of this was, and then firmly pushed his mind away from such a thought process. There was no use thinking of such things now, even if a nice snog would be the answer to all their boredom issues…and Draco firmly refused to believe he had entertained such a thought.

"I have no idea," said Draco, yet refusing to pull his hands away, despite that the subject had changed, and any need for comfort was gone. "We could always go start the new puzzle, I guess."

"Or we could eat," said Harry. "But I'm not really hungry yet, as we had breakfast so recently."

"Me neither," said Draco quietly.

"You don't deserve to have an opinion, as you have virtually starved yourself for an unknown period of time."

"Pretty much my whole life," said Draco nonchalantly, standing up to walk downstairs and hoping to avoid the subject, for he realized now that he had done a terrible thing by opening his mouth and telling the truth.

Harry firmly pulled Draco down onto the couch by their still-intertwined hands. "What did you say?" he asked, a dangerous tone in his voice.

Draco sighed and looked at the floor. "I've never been a very hungry person—and my dad always wanted me to be perfect. That meant being skinny, too. So…well, I didn't eat much. I didn't want to get fat, because that would mean I was imperfect, and then Lucius would beat me. Therefore, my wonderful habit of not eating much." Draco found that was a reasonably good story—believable, hopefully, which was the point. Harry wouldn't know the difference, and all Draco had to do was not let the secret slip. The real reason was far too horrible to think of.

"Liar." Well, so much for that plan.

"Fine. Lucius kicked me out of the house, once. Or, rather, I ran away—a few years ago. Anyways, I was out on the street for a few weeks, in muggle London, and not only did I not know how to interact with muggles, but I had no muggle currency and Lucius froze all my accounts so that I couldn't get any. I couldn't use magic, since that would violate the underage magic restrictions, causing me to be carted off by the authorities and taken back to my parents Therefore, I stayed to the back alleys, avoiding any interaction with the Muggles. I became so used to not having anything to eat, and I didn't see the reason to change when Lucius finally found me and brought me back."

Harry was quiet. "I didn't expect that," he said simply. "But I'm glad you told me. It only makes me want to feed you more. On second thought, I think we should have tea and biscuits right now. We can eat a light lunch, I guess, but I'm cooking a big dinner—just to let you know."

Draco grimaced. "Fine, Potter. Whatever you say."

Harry grinned enthusiastically. "I'm glad see it my way," Harry mocked. "Now, come along—we must get some food in your all-too-skinny body." They headed downstairs, Draco tailing behind Harry reluctantly. Suddenly, Harry turned around, almost running into Draco, who was walking a bit too close. "I thought of something," Harry said after a moment's surprise, his breath a little ragged. "If you were in muggle London for so long, how come you don't know much about muggles?"

Draco, trying to remain calmer than he felt with the blood pounding in his veins, rolled his eyes. "I avoided contact with all of them, Potter, as I said. Anyways, though I saw a lot of things, I never had the opportunity to ask what they were, and I wasn't about to willingly get close enough to any muggles to hear."

"And why did you leave the house in the first place?" asked Harry, leaning a little closer into Draco's personal space, causing the blonde's breath to quicken.

"I'd rather not talk about that," he said quietly, knowing Harry wouldn't press the matter—for now.

"Right," said Harry, making as if to turn around and keep walking. However, he didn't—if anything, he leaned even more into Draco's personal space, and, if Draco wasn't mistaken, inhaled deeply and sighed. "I'm sorry," said Harry quietly.

"For what?" asked Draco, equally quiet.

"For you. I'm sorry you had such a horrible childhood…" Harry trailed off, his eyes somehow closed. Draco took a moment to study Harry's flushed cheeks and messy hair, wishing he had more courage.

"It's not your fault," Draco said finally. Harry's eyes opened, meeting Draco's.

"Actually, it kind of is," Harry said frankly, unconsciously leaning even closer. Soon, they would be touching, Draco knew—soon, there wouldn't be any more space between them, unless he acted now and moved before anything potentially embarrassing happened.

"No, Harry, it's not."

"Say it again," said Harry, his eyes closed again.

"Say what?" Draco asked, suddenly confused at the sudden change of topic.

"My name, Draco. I like hearing you call me Harry—not Potter, but Harry."

"Fine, Harry," Draco said, with added emphasis on the name and a playful hint to his voice. "Anything for you," he added with a bit more seriousness than he intended. Draco moved to walk by Harry, not quite sure he liked how close he had become, but his progress was suddenly halted by a hand that had stretched out in front of him, blocking his pass through the hallway.

Harry gently caught Draco with one arm as he tried to leave, then quickly turned him into a kiss, taking only a split second to perform both actions, caught up in the moment. Even he hadn't really thought about acting—instincts had guided him, in a way, forcing his hand out, pulling Draco closer. Draco fell a little off balance, leaning slightly into Harry but his arms at his side, depending entirely upon the one arm Harry had wrapped loosely around his waste for support. His knees shook a little, and he was about to sink down to the ground—and it wasn't helping that he was off center and leaning forward, and he could barely keep his thoughts straight or coherent, and he knew he was thinking in circles, not helped by their propinquity to each other, intoxicating, augmented by the already-intense feeling of the kiss, despite its mild nature. Draco knew that if he leaned just a little more, he would fall right into Harry's chest, supported by his arms and by the kiss that was almost holding him up on its own, like a magnet would attract the opposing pole, hold the sister magnet up, dangling in the air.

Draco decided that Harry tasted strongly of—well, he didn't actually know. There was a hint of tea in the background, but it was overwhelmed by the taste that was apparently Harry—Harry, without any added spices or flavors. Draco inhaled deeply, smelling Harry's slight odor—not sweaty and gross, but masculine and definitive.

The kiss was slightly wet and very tentative; after a moment, Harry pulled back. Draco's arms were still at his sides, in shock as he was—his brain had yet to kick in and force Harry against the wall, ravishing him as he well deserved. The fuzzy feeling that had taken over any possible thought process was a wonderful buzz—it could be quite addictive, Draco mused absently.

Draco was still in blissful shock when Harry pulled away, a nervous look in his eyes, an unsure hand running through his hair, making it messier than usual, in that usual manner that Harry had when uncomfortable. "I—I'll be making tea," he said, not willing to meet Draco's eyes, his voice cracking a little.

Draco stumbled a little as the supporting arm and magnetic kiss left him, but he caught himself, standing upright, a blissful gaze on his face. He wasn't quite sure what he was thinking—the fuzz had taken over, not allowing any thoughts to intrude upon the peace. He was barely aware of how long he stood in the hallway, but after a short time had passed—knowing, even in his addled state, that Harry might want a few moments to collect himself, as indicated by the hasty retreat—Draco proceeded to the kitchen. There he found Harry, ears red and unwilling to meet Draco's eyes, but the remnants of a happy grin still gracing his face.

Harry turned his back when Draco entered the kitchen and proceeded to pour two cups of steaming tea. Draco could tell in his manner—the way he moved, his nervous look—that, despite the remnants of a content grin, Harry was worried about something—nervous or embarrassed, maybe. In his dazed state, Draco wasn't going to psycho-analyze him; he would wait until later that night, when he had time to collect his thoughts. For now, he was happy to act normal, for Harry's sake—so that Harry could pretend it didn't happen, despite that happy little grin—and be a little more comfortable.

Oh, but inside, Draco was rejoicing, smiling, dancing and sighing—he hadn't remembered how good it was to kiss someone for the first time, with so much emotion—he wasn't even sure he had ever felt that way when he was with Blaise, and he had felt strongly about that wonderful Slytherin. Inside, Draco was happy to relive every second in his brain, trying to preserve the memory so that he may look upon it in fifty years as possibly one of the happiest moments he had ever experienced—and certainly one of the most worthwhile ones. As Harry looked into his tea to avoid his eyes, a small grin crossing his face every few minutes (then disappearing quickly, as if he wasn't sure it should be there), Draco was recounting every move, every feeling, every taste…every last moment.

He would worry about Harry's nervous embarrassment, the uncertainty, tomorrow—for now, he was happy.

**xxx**

A/N: Vocab words! Yay! Oh, wow—I'm a nerd. Go look up "propinquity" if you don't know what it means—extra credit if you tell me in the review.

Oh, and Johnny wants you to review. Please?

**AND I MIGHT ADD, YOU SHOULD VISIT THE FORUM FOR _FOOD FOR THOUGHT_ SO THAT YOU MAY DISCUSS THE WONDERFUL-NESS OF THE KISS! And other topics, as well…**


	18. Food for Thought

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 18: Food for Thought**

**xxx**

When Draco and Harry had finished the tea, they discovered it was dusk and had been raining lightly for a while already. Draco went to stand by the window, taking in the beauty of the rain falling softly to the grown, running into rivulets that joined again and again, becoming bigger each time. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft pitter-patter, reveling in the comfort rain gave him.

Harry came to stand slightly behind him, looking out the window and enjoying the quiet with him. After a moment, the loss of warmth radiating from the propinquity of Harry's body was lost, indicating that he had moved to the puzzle table, where he was likely to bring out the next puzzle they had. For a moment, Draco mused on why no one had asked where he and Harry had gotten the new puzzles—then he just figured no one really cared enough to ask. Maybe they thought he had retrieved them from the attic, or assumed someone else had gotten them instead. It didn't really matter, though.

Draco sighed and, giving one last gaze out into the rain, he turned and joined Harry, pulling his favorite armchair across the room so that he could sit in it and work on the puzzle. For now, making Harry any less comfortable than he already seemed to be was something Draco was working against—now that Draco had a few minutes to calm, he realized that Harry may not be completely confident or firm in his sexuality, let alone sure enough of himself to be kissing Draco Malfoy, his once-arch nemesis.

Harry magically raised the table so that it floated at a comfortable level for them to work on. He poured the pieces out onto the table, and the two set to work separating the edge pieces from all the others. It was a slow process, but Harry refused to let Draco sort them by magic—it took away half the fun, he said.

About halfway through the sorting, two small letters flew simultaneously from the fireplace, a slight pop accompanying their arrival. Harry jumped a little; though he kept the floo open at all times in case of any possible communication (he was lonely and wizarding fires gave off no heat—what was there to lose), it was rarely used—most people visited in person.

The papers flew a short distance to land gently on the top of the puzzle table (right in the middle of the pile Draco was working on, he noticed sourly). Harry picked up the letters and took a moment to examine them, then handed one to Draco. "School letter," he said briefly. "I told you it would be coming."

"I never denied it," said Draco absently, opening his letter with little curiosity. It always contained the same message: welcome back, we look forward to a new year, you'll need these books, and we'll see you soon. Draco skimmed the list of supplies he would need—a few more potion ingredients, a couple books, but otherwise, he had everything.

Draco put down his letter to see that Harry had already pushed his own aside. "Not willing to see the reality of school pressing in on you, Harry?" said Draco. "Too much homework to complete in the scant time we have left?" The memory of Harry asking to be called by his first name was still vivid in his memory, the scant hour (more? Draco had lost track of time) that had passed doing nothing to distort his memory. He was determined to use it more from now on, whatever happened.

Harry, obviously, remembered as well, for he flushed a little and became even more absorbed in the puzzle than he already was. "Not really."

"Then your classes must be really easy, if you don't have any homework."

Harry shrugged, apparently intent upon the puzzle, though Draco could see his slight discomfort in the tensing of his shoulders. "No, I had homework—I finished it a long time ago, actually. There wasn't much else to do when I didn't have company, unless I wanted to sulk and cry about Sirius. I checked it three times, I think—I might have lost count, though. Maybe more, maybe less. It all kind of runs together in my mind."

"And here I was, thinking you had yet to even think about it," said Draco, leaning back in his armchair, content to watch Harry deftly pick out the desired pieces and place them into small categories, the organization of which was lost upon Draco. Really, Harry had worked on too many puzzles—he had a method, Draco could tell, and it always seemed to work, but it was virtually indecipherable to him. All he understood was to separate the edge pieces, put them together, and then pick up a piece and hope you would either be able to find approximately where it went through the use of the picture on the box top, or maybe be lucky enough to actually place it with another piece by sheer coincidence.

"I'm not always a slacker," Harry said jokingly, "though I'm sure Hermione would disagree."

Draco smiled a little, then decided he might as well work on the puzzle for a while—staring at Harry so intently, studying his every movement, was likely to make the boy uncomfortable. It seemed, now that he had kissed the wonderful Gryffindor, the rest of the world was blotted out. Sure, he realized when Blaise had pointed it out that much of his world already revolved around flirting with Harry, and he knew he liked the dark-haired boy, but he had been able to shove all of that to the back of his mind until Harry had kissed him—oh, but now, it was no use. Granted, it hadn't been very long since their brief encounter, and the feelings were still quite overwhelming, but Draco didn't think they would go away so easily.

When he had been in love with Blaise—for it most certainly had been love, even if it hadn't worked out—he had felt something akin to this. The obsession with everything that embodied Blaise—memorizing his class schedule included. They had taken a little while to get together, but he had never been able to stop watching Blaise, and he had certainly not been able to push the feelings out of his mind after their first kiss. It was as if Blaise had taken over his mind; it seemed all he could think about was his fellow Slytherin, and he had to make a conscious effort not to speak of his friend uncharacteristically often so as not to draw suspicion upon his newfound interest.

Now that he had kissed Harry—well, he couldn't even begin to hide it, and he knew Harry noticed, just as Blaise had. Only difference was that, then, it had been Draco who was not sure about his romance—he was unwilling to start any such relationship with any boy for fear that it would come back to haunt him. Then, it had been Blaise who was patiently waiting for Draco to calm down, think things through, and realize and come to terms with his feelings. Now it was Draco waiting, and he found that he was quite impatient—and, if it went on to long, he would be forced to act and draw Harry out of his cocoon, he knew…and he wasn't exactly dreading that moment when he confronted Harry, forcing the Gryffindor to come to terms with his feelings so that Draco could ravish his body with all the attention it deserved.

Draco shook his head, pushing his circular thoughts away—really, he had already misplaced two pieces, trying to put an edge piece in the not-edge-piece pile, and Harry had corrected him both times. If this train of thought continued, anyways, he might be left with some very interesting evidence of his thoughts which would only serve to estrange Harry. He needed to focus now, and he could stay up all night musing upon all the new information.

Regardless, Draco wasn't too worried. Blaise was good at reading people, and he had voiced his opinion of what Harry's feelings were. Now, with Harry initiating a kiss, Draco had little reason to doubt; he just had to wait for Harry to have less of a reason to doubt—and though that might take a little time and a little encouragement, it was obvious that it would happen sooner or later. And, Draco hoped, it would be sooner, for he really wished to commence the snogging as soon as humanly possible.

**xxx**

A little past eight o'clock, Harry left the puzzle (the edges now complete and the center being organized into little groups of pieces, some together and some not, that were beginning to almost appear to be a picture) to make dinner. Draco waited until he could hear that Harry had sat down, waiting for whatever he was making to finish cooking, before he ventured in the kitchen. Harry was sitting with his back to the counter, elbows propped up and a thoughtful look gracing his face; he worried his bottom lip a little, and Draco seriously thought about jumping him right then and there.

"Hey," he said. Harry startled a little, having been deep in thought and not noticing Draco's entry, and then turned a nervous smile on him.

"Hey. Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes, just to let you know," he said before looking determinedly at the ground.

"Thanks," said Draco, sitting nonchalantly at the counter, his elbows propped up in the same manner as Harry's, their elbows brushing a little. Harry blushed and looked in the opposite direction of Draco, who took the hint and moved just a little further away. Maybe that had been pushing it a little too far.

There was a long bout of awkward silence. Finally, Harry said, "So, the puzzle's going well…"

"Yeah," said Draco, not sure what else he could say. Really, if he had known it would be this uncomfortable, he would have gone up to his room before dinner started. However, it was too late now—if he left now, the awkwardness would only increase exponentially the next time they had to be around each other. There really was only one solution.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Draco quietly, trying to keep his voice calm and uncommitted to the conversation.

"About what?" Harry asked nervously.

Draco rolled his eyes, making a sound of annoyance. "Really, Harry, even I know you're not that dense." Draco swung his legs around so that they were barely touching Harry's. He reached out with one hand, gently turning Harry's cheek towards him so that he could look into the Gryffindor's eyes. "Do you want to talk about _this_?" he asked, his eyes darting towards his hand in indication.

The emotion behind Harry's eyes was chaotic, a tumult of fear, indecision and lust filling them, crowding each other for room, each emotion trying to be the dominant one, yet all failing to take prominence. "Draco, I—" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and opened them again.

"No, don't worry about it," Draco said, pulling away and offering a genuine smile. He had seen what he had wanted. "You have time—we have time—to figure things out. I'm patient. I just wanted you to know how I feel, but don't worry; I won't treat you any differently." And Draco meant it; he knew what it was like for someone to say that and then betray it, estranging him even further by acting completely different from any other time. "Now, don't you have dinner to make? I think your chicken's about done."

Harry gave a weak smile and went to work on the food while Draco appreciated the view from behind. When the food was finally placed in front of him, he grimaced, saying, "Really, do I have to eat so much? I mean, I know you want me to gain a little weight and all, but that's a bit too much, if you ask me."

"I'm not asking you," said Harry, obviously trying to follow Draco's lead and act normally until he had time to think about it. "I'm commanding you. Why do you eat so little again?"

"Between being out on the street, falling into the habit, and needing to be perfect, it was normal," said Draco, taking a small bite of chicken and eyeing the peas in front of him. He took a sip of tea instead, deciding it looked less threatening.

"Draco, nothing about eating poorly is normal. You don't have to be perfect, you know," said Harry, taking a healthy bite of the peas to show they weren't poisonous.

"That's what you think," said Draco quietly, a distant look in his eyes and his happy mood suddenly gone. "I do have to be perfect, Harry. I do…"

Harry put his fork down and looked at Draco, who had frozen in place. "Draco, you're fine the way you are. Actually, a little meat on you would probably do you some good."

Draco turned his gaze upon Harry, a burning look in his eyes that, though Harry knew it was not directed at him, was a little frightening. "You don't understand. I _do_ have to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect attitude, perfect body—all of it. I told you earlier, but I guess you weren't listening. My father _forced _me to be perfect; he expected it in every thing I did, so I _am_. If I am not perfect, _what am I_?" Draco asked, his voice steely.

"You're Draco Malfoy, who has some healthy weight upon you and friends that care about you. Draco, you can be _healthy_ and still perfect at the same time—matter of fact, the way you eat now, the way you've eaten for longer than I care to think about, _isn't_ perfect—it's quite the opposite, actually, and it's bad for you. It's _im_perfect, if you ask me. You may be related to your father through blood, but you are not his to control and shape into the perfect little pure-blood Malfoy doll."

Draco's look turned from fierce to pleading in an instant, surprising Harry. "Please, can't you just try to understand?" he asked, his voice soft. "I have to be…I have to…" Tears were now brimming in Draco's eyes.

"And cutting yourself makes you more perfect?" Harry asked earnestly. "Eating to the point of starvation makes you perfect?"

Draco brushed the tears away, not allowing them to fall, looking down at the table so that he could better resist the temptation. "By his standards, yes," he said. "But I never cut my face, or anywhere other than my arms, if you hadn't noticed. To mar anything that can be seen—especially my face—would be…sacrilegious, almost. Scars can be hidden with a little magic, but the face is especially important—it must not only be perfect, it must be flawless, without a scar, even under the magic or makeup."

"Draco, you're crazy. Scars do not make you less perfect—the belief that cutting yourself will make anything better does not help, either. Eating so little that you have to be careful not to pass out doesn't help. You're father was messed up—and you don't have to live up to his standards. Live up to your own standards instead. Or, if those don't work, if you can't accomplish that, live up to Severus's standards for you, or Blaise's or—or even my standards. Those standards are so much healthier, so much better, for you. Just—try, will you? Please?"

The unspoken 'for me' rang loudly in the air, and, a moment later, Draco nodded. He refused to look up at Harry, knowing it would cause the unused tears to overflow. "I'll try."

"You don't have to be perfect, Dray. Just think about it. Just—just food for thought," Harry said quietly. A moment later, Harry was eating again, the soft tinkling of his utensils ringing loudly in the silence. Draco thought about the use of his old nickname—only Blaise had called him that. He wasn't sure if he wanted Harry to use it, actually—it had so many sentimental memories attached to it. He wouldn't mention it for now, but he would have to figure his own feelings on the matter out soon. He figured he might just need a little time to get used to it, and then it would be fine—he'd have to see.

**xxx**

Draco and Harry were sitting in more uncomfortable silence over the puzzle. It seemed that, no matter how hard he tried, Draco could not get a conversation started. He'd tried talking about their trip to the mall, Harry's friends, Blaise, school, and everything else he could think of. He wasn't sure what to do—but the silence kept growing, and it was becoming oppressive.

Draco started thinking about what Harry had said, trying to ignore the silence that was crushing him from all sides. Did he have to be perfect? Was it possible to not strive towards perfection every minute of his life? Was it okay to have decent, if not the best, grades, and good, though certainly not amazing, skills? Draco didn't consider himself a perfectionist, per se (rather, his dad was the perfectionist, having forced his own wants and desires upon his son since birth), but was it possible to…well…make mistakes?

Draco knew that, in theory, of course it was possible to make mistakes and not be perfect—but that didn't mean he knew how to do it. Draco absently placed a piece in the puzzle, smiling a little as it fit perfectly. He was getting better at this—slowly. And he could get better at this "imperfect" thing, too—if he tried.

Draco looked at the clock. It was a little past eleven—there were only a few more days they could stay up this late again. Snape would be arriving the next day to take them to Diagon Alley to pick up their things, and then it was only nine more days until school started. Only nine more days left for Draco to convince Harry that everything was the same and, if he was lucky, convince him that things could be even better than before. Draco had the sinking feeling that if he didn't get together with Harry before the end of the summer, there wouldn't be another chance to over the school year—sure, they would probably—hopefully—still be friends, but it was more than likely that it wouldn't go further than that.

Though he wasn't quite tired, Draco was ready to take a break on the puzzle. And maybe he could find a way to break this annoying silence problem they seemed to be having. Maybe he could find more out about Harry's past—that should be interesting, and it would get Harry talking, which was the goal.

"So do you stay here all summer, without anyone except visitors?" Draco asked quietly, watching as Harry searched for another piece.

"No," said Harry, not taking his eyes off the puzzle. "I go to stay with my Aunt, Uncle and cousin Dudley for about a month, and then I come here." Draco could tell this subject made Harry a little uncomfortable, though he didn't stop talking. "It didn't use to be that way, though—I used to have to stay with them all the summer, but when Sirius came last year, I also came to Grimmauld place as soon as I could…and then he left it to me in his will, so I came here again."

"Why don't you stay with your family?"

"I like it here better." No, Harry wasn't avoiding the subject—not at all.

"Why?"

Harry finally looked up from the puzzle. "Why do you want to know?" he asked, one hand hovering, puzzle piece in hand, where it was about to be placed. His eyes looked piercingly into Draco, as if searching for some hint, some clue, some sign that it was okay to talk about this subject.

Draco shrugged. "I'm just curious, I guess. There's not a lot I know about you, other than what I see at school and what the entire wizarding world knows."

Harry looked back down at the table, apparently finding whatever it was he had been looking for. "I don't like being with them, is all. They hate me, and, though I don't hate them, exactly, I don't like them much either."

Draco leaned forward, becoming more interested as the conversation went on. "I know why I have family problems, but why do you?" he asked.

"They don't like magic, is all—I didn't even know it existed until my eleventh birthday, when Hagrid had to hand-deliver my school letter. My Uncle wouldn't let me open or read any of them, and they just kept coming—all of them addressed to me in that cursive, green writing. I was curious, but Vernon wouldn't let me see them—he figured if he ignored my magical heritage, it would go away. They told me my parents died in a car crash and there was absolutely nothing special about me—except that I was an annoying brat, of course. They liked being normal too much—they thought magic was the evilest thing on the planet, and only because their neighbors wouldn't see it as 'average-family-normal.' Lord knows what their expressions would be if I told them that at least one of our neighbors were witches and wizards, if not more; they'd probably go crazy and move, or something."

"And here I was thinking you had an adoring family and loving home," said Draco. He wasn't outwardly surprised or appalled, but, inside, he was amazed—how could anyone know he or she was not magical, let alone have their history denied by someone who did know?

"Oh, far from it. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I started getting those letters, and they were addressed to my cupboard. Then they moved me to Dudley's second room, though they didn't bother to move all the stuff out. Still, at least there was enough room to stand up in."

Draco's eyes widened a fraction. "A cupboard?" he asked, voice level.

"Yeah, a cupboard. I get that reaction a lot, actually," said Harry, still diligently working on the puzzle, using it as an excuse to avoid Draco's eyes.

"Right," said Draco quietly. He could tell that Harry didn't want to make a big deal out of it—it probably didn't matter all that much to him in the long run, though it was certainly a new bit of information for Draco, who couldn't help but feel appalled. Still, he wouldn't make a deal out of it—no need to make Harry more uncomfortable, especially when he probably heard it all the time.

"So what about you?" Harry asked, finally looking up. "What's your family like?"

Draco shrugged. "You've heard most of it, really. My parents, my friends—all my friends have parents who are my parents' friends, of course. Half of them are my cousins and all of them are destined to be the Dark Lord's followers. All my extended family—and it's very extended—is mostly the same as my parents. Those who aren't the same, who don't have the same views, are mostly outcasts. Mother took on the Zabinis as her pets; she wants to corrupt them from neutrality to the Dark Lord, but it's not working so far. She's only succeeded in making me and Blaise friends, and if she knew how close she really was, she'd probably sacrifice them to the Dark Lord herself."

"I take it your family isn't big on you and Blaise, then."

"My parents hate the gay thing—though they certainly don't know about me. Blaise is actually the only one, though I think Severus might suspect, and you, of course." Draco firmly avoided Harry's eyes, knowing this could be a bad subject. "They want me to procreate with Pansy and continue the Malfoy line. The most important thing to the Malfoy family right now is remaining 'pure,' and to do so, we have to have pureblood children. Of course, Pansy's something like my fifth cousin _and_ my third cousin twice removed, but they don't care that we're a bunch of inbreeding barbarians too scared of losing our purity. They don't care that our children could start sprouting third arms or being born without toes. It doesn't matter as long as those deformed kids are still purebloods."

"I knew that a lot of old families were obsessive, but that might be taking it a bit too far."

"A bit? Half of them don't even acknowledge families that started out as muggles generations and years ago yet have only been marrying other witches and wizards—though they've technically been magical for generations now, yet they were impure then, and so they're impure now." Draco scoffed. "The children no longer matter, and half of the kids have been so brainwashed that they don't see it, either. Crabbe and Goyle are possibly the stupidest creatures on the planet, and that's because both their parents were related too closely. They could be considered mentally retarded in some ways, but no one cares, and those two have been brainwashed not to care, either. Crabbe's engaged to a girl who's only is second cousin, and she's only three right now, but neither of them care—it only matters that they're continuing their lineage."

"Yeah, they're all crazy. It's a good thing you realize it, though. Marrying Pansy would have been horrible—not only for the purity reasons, but because she's possibly the most annoying creature on the face of the planet."

Draco laughed. "You have no idea—I've had to go 'shoe shopping' with her at least ten times in the past years. That's what she tells our parents anyways; we go shopping for about an hour, buy three or four pairs of shoes, and then she tries to jump me for the rest of the day. It's traumatizing, really."

Harry laughed, and Draco was relieved—the tension, the silence, was broken, and he could tell it wouldn't be coming back for a little while yet. "Two tortures in one—shoe shopping _and_ Pansy. I pity you!"

"If you really pitied me," Draco said dryly, sarcastically, "you'd stop laughing so hard that you look as if you'd stop breathing any minute now." Harry was turning slightly blue for lack of oxygen, his face bright red and tears of mirth brimming at the corners of his eyes.

Finally, Draco couldn't take it—he took up a nearby pillow and threw it at Harry, whom it hit right in the middle of the face. Of course, it only served to make Harry laugh harder, but he had enough control over his body movements (despite the bone-shaking chest-wracking laughs coming from him) to throw the pillow right back with a little added force. Draco was so surprised with it (even though he should have seen it coming) that he let out a small yelp of surprise.

"Oh, that's it, Potter," said Draco, picking the pillow back up and standing so he could get a better shot. He waved his wand, making sure the puzzle wouldn't be disturbed by anything they did—he certainly didn't want to rework all that they had done so far—and before he could follow through with the hit, he was smacked in the stomach by another pillow.

Draco backed up a little so he would not be hit again so easily and looked dangerously at Harry, who was staring innocently back, suppressing the frequent bubbling chuckle, face flushed from laughing. "You are going down, Potter," Draco said maliciously, a playful look in his face; then he sprung forward, a look of intensity upon his face.

Harry screeched and sprang behind the couch, using his pillow as a shield while Draco beat at him without mercy. While Draco was intent upon his blows, Harry quietly snuck a foot out and, with a quick movement, swept it under Draco's feet and tripped him. Draco, his back on the ground, soon found an enthusiastic Harry on top of him, dealing out blows with the pillow as if Draco were the new Dark Lord and could only be defeated by might of pillow.

Draco twisted around and sat up and was soon in a position in which he could hit Harry. Reaching out for another pillow from the couch, he soon had two pillows, and double ammo meant double hits.

The screams and shouts issuing from the boys were joyful—Draco was just happy that they had temporarily mended the gap between them. Careful not to come to a position which could make Harry uncomfortable (i.e., one straddling the other), he dealt out blows as fast as his arms would move.

Many minutes later and break coming in harsh, exhausted gasps, the two boys lay sprawled out upon the floor, pillows discarded nearby. A large grin graced Draco's face—he hadn't had that much fun in Merlin-knows how long—if ever.

Draco rolled on his side, one elbow propping his head up. "Do you have any snacks in this house? I'm hungry now."

Harry, smiling, rolled up onto his feet, stretching as he stood up. "Maybe I should get into pillow fights with you more often, Malfoy—it might cure your eating habits in of itself. How does ice cream sound? I have all the ingredients for a good banana split, or maybe a milkshake, or just plain ice cream, if you prefer."

"Do you have chocolate?" Harry nodded. "And chocolate syrup?" Another nod. "That's good enough for me," said Draco enthusiastically, quickly getting up on his feet and following Harry into the kitchen.

Minutes later, each boy was settled at the counter with a bowl of chocolate ice cream smothered in syrup. Draco watched hungrily as a little syrup dribbled onto Harry's mouth, but he didn't say anything about it. He could resist urges—he could! Or so he was trying to convince himself…the little voice in his head was very tempting.

"It's going to be different when we go back to school, isn't it?" asked Harry.

Draco knew exactly what Harry was asking when he heard the question—he had actually been wondering the same thing himself earlier in the week. He pondered the question for a moment to formulate his answer, using the delicious ice cream in his mouth as an excuse not to answer immediately. "Yeah, I guess. You'll be in Gryffindor, and I'll be in Slytherin. But my parents are locked away, so it's not like they can command what I do anymore. And the castle's big—if we don't want the entire school to know of our friendship immediately, we can always hide it for a while. Though, I don't know—secrets tend to get around pretty fast up there."

"No, you're wrong—_rumors_ get around fast at Hogwarts. If you can keep a secret, and you're cautious about it, it can stay a secret forever."

"What do you want to do, then? Keep our friendship a secret, or just come back to school acting like nothing was strange about you and I being friends with only a summer—a summer we weren't supposed to ever see each other in—to become friends."

"The looks on their faces would be pretty priceless," said Harry, a distant look on his face as he rolled another mouthful of ice cream around in his mouth.

Draco smiled. "Yeah, I'd love to see Pansy's face. I think she has a huge crush on you, and so she's extra mean to you to disprove the theory. Next thing you'd know, she'd be asking me to set you two up."

Harry made a face of strong disgust. "She has a crush on me? Why isn't she going after you?" he asked, grimacing. "How? Why? Help?"

Draco laughed. "Potter, just about every girl, and even some of the guys, in the school has a crush on you, if you hadn't noticed. If not because you're the Boy-Who-Lived and famously rich, then because they all think you're drop-dead gorgeous. Possibly the only two without crushes would be Granger and Chang."

Harry blushed, his ears turning as red as they'd ever been. "They _all_ have crushes on me?" he asked, dumbfounded.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Duh. Haven't you ever noticed how you'll walk by a group of girls and they'll go quiet, then giggle you've passed? Even I've seen it, and I certainly didn't follow you around and observe your effect on others."

"No, I'd never really noticed, I guess."

"For a would-be Slytherin, you certainly aren't observant. Between that and not being able to lie effectively, it's a wonder the Sorting Hat would ever even think about placing you there."

"I'll have you know I'm quite cunning, and I can lie when I want to."

"Right. Wishful thinking there, Potter," said Draco, taking the last bite of his ice cream. For once, he got it up to put it in the sink himself, running a little water over it before leaving it to be washed. Harry finished at about the same time, placing his dish in the sink shortly after Draco.

They returned to the living room, still bantering about Harry's ability to lie. Harry sat at one end of the couch, and Draco sat in his favorite armchair again, which was still pulled up next to the puzzle table. He curled up, pulling his knees to his chest and bracing his feet against one arm of the chair. He could go to sleep like this, he mused—it had been an overall good day, and he was tired.

Silence fell after a little while, though it wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been earlier in that day. It was, overall, a very good day, Draco though, and it had certainly been eventful. They'd finished a puzzle, played with a phonograph, kissed, started another puzzle, began convincing Draco he didn't have to be perfect, talked about their past, participated in a pillow fight, had some amazingly delicious ice cream, and now they were each about to fall asleep in the living room. It couldn't have been better, really. Well, they could have made out ferociously, becoming so engaged in each other that they would have had sex wherever they were, but Draco figured that was wishful thinking and, since it wasn't ever going to happen whatever he did, Draco was content to let the day end the way it was.

"Draco?" came Harry's voice, quiet and sleepy. At some point in time, Harry must have turned the lights off with a wave of his wand, because Draco opened his eyes to find it dark in the living room.

"Yeah?" he answered sleepily, not quite sure what Harry wanted.

"It was a good day, right?" he asked.

Draco wasn't sure what brought this question on, but he sat up, suddenly awake, and found Harry as his eyes adjusted to what available light there was. "Very good. Why?"

"I just wanted to make sure I hadn't imagined all of it," Harry muttered. "Just wanted to make sure it really _was_ good."

Draco smiled into the dark, even though he knew Harry couldn't see it. "Of course it was a good day, Harry. What else could it have been?" Draco felt he could almost see the tired smile he knew was gracing Harry's face.

"Nothing, really. I was just making sure."

"No need to make sure, Harry, when we both know it was good."

"I know."

There was silence again, and Draco resumed his task of falling into a blissful sleep. He began remembering the kiss, a gentle smile on his lips as the memory played back. He could almost feel it all again—the wetness, the gentleness, the breath on his face…He could taste the tea again, taste that taste that was distinctly Harry, smell his faint odor again…

"Dray?" came the voice again, quieter this time, and sleepier.

"Yeah?" asked Draco, still not sure if he wanted Harry calling him that, yet unwilling to contest it at this moment.

"We'll still be friends when we go back to school, right?" Harry asked, worry in his voice despite its sleep-ridden quality.

"We've already talked about this, Harry," said Draco, a little resentful that he had been interrupted from such a nice memory for such an obvious answer.

"Yeah, but we didn't decide on anything," said Harry, and Draco could almost see the pout gracing his face. "Will we still be friends?"

Draco sat up, his body and mind protesting, but unwilling to leave Harry without an answer. "Of course we'll be friends, Harry," he said quietly. "I couldn't go back to school and not be your friend—not when it's been so nice so far."

"And we'll still do puzzles and other stuff?" he asked, hope saturating his voice.

"Of course. Whatever you want, Harry. If you want to tell the school, it's fine with me—if not, I'm fine with that, too. But I can promise you that we'll still be friends, still hang out whenever possible. I wouldn't let you try to work it any other way."

"Good," said Harry. "That's really good, Dray. I don't want to not be your friend again."

"You won't be, trust me. I have to hold onto all the real friends I can get, so you're not getting out of this one easily. Now go to sleep, Harry. We have to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know. With Snape. It should be loads of fun," Harry said, sarcasm dripping off his voice.

"Severus is a decent person, Harry. You should know that by now." Draco settled back into the chair, closing his eyes so he could drift off to sleep again.

"I know. He and I just don't always get along. He doesn't like me much, you know."

"He likes you more than you think, actually. Just that he trusted you would wake him up when I was asleep the other day was proof of that, and if you'd think for a moment, you'd realize I'm right. Now, stop talking. Even if you're determined not to sleep all night, I need rest—for my beauty, if nothing else."

Harry laughed, though Draco could tell he was closer to sleep than before. "Beauty, right. Draco, don't kid yourself…" he said, drifting quieter with every word.

Draco listened carefully, and mere moments later, he could hear the shallow breathing that indicated Harry was asleep. He grabbed his wand and, whispering 'Lumos,' took a good look at Harry's peaceful face. Eyes close, a rosy tint to the cheeks, and a small smile gracing his lips, Draco almost couldn't force himself to extinguish the light and go to sleep.

A small smile gracing his lips as well, Draco drifted to sleep dreaming of tea and chocolate ice cream.

**xxx**

A/N: Aww, how fluffy. I hope all of you enjoyed the chapter. Now, Johnny kindly requests that you review—and I kindly advise to do so, for he has a large supply of ammunition in the shape of fluffy pillows.


	19. Geraniums

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 19: Geraniums**

**A/N:** Sorry for the tardiness in the post; I was watching my brother perform death-defying circus act (think Cirque du Solei, but even better because you actually know the people, they're actually good, and you'd never think they were high schoolers—all three nights for the show are sold out—and have been for at least a week—and I'm seeing each one of them). Also, forgive any mistakes made; I was a bit rushed in posting this, as I wanted to get it online for all of you. I was only thinking of my dear fans, I swear! Mwah!

**xxx**

Draco woke with a stiff cramp in his neck from the position his head had fallen in. He should have known that sleeping in he chair had been a bad day—at the same time, he knew even know that the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to turn or move his head in any form or fashion would not have come close to moving him from Harry's side last night; matter of fact, there was very little, including the Dark Lord or Pansy, that could have deterred him from staying near Harry all night long.

Draco woke to the delightful smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen. He got up, knowing he would find Harry in front of the grill, focusing all his attention on the strips of frying meat.

"Morning," said Draco, almost awake for once. He glanced at the clock—a new record. It was only just shy of nine twenty, and he had risen on his own.

"I knew you'd be up soon," said Harry cheerfully. "You didn't look quite comfortable, and I figured the smell of cooking food would draw you out of your slumber before your normal rising hours."

Draco scowled. "If I had known you'd be so smug about me rising early, I would have stayed there and pretended to be asleep, despite the uncomfortable position." Harry just smiled, choosing not to respond, and turned back to his bacon.

Moments later, a large pile of food had been placed in front of Draco. He grimaced slightly but knew better than to argue by now. In-between a bite of bacon and a bite of eggs, he asked, "When will Snape be here?"

"About an hour, I believe," said Harry, eating his own food diligently. "He said he wanted to be in and out before the crowds became unbearable."

"He's bringing a disguise for us both, right?" Draco asked, wanting to keep the discussion going. Harry nodded, not looking up at Draco. "It will be strange not talking to people I know—I always meet people in Diagon Alley and end up talking to them for hours—it's the curse of being a Malfoy. You have to be polite to everyone—unless they're muggles or mudbloods, of course, but that goes without saying when it comes to my father."

Harry nodded. "Snape said that Ron and Hermione have been forewarned of our trip and that I'll be able to walk around with them, and I think he said something about Blaise being there, too. It was probably all Dumbledore's idea to have our friends there."

"That, and Snape will enjoy foisting us upon others for a little so he can drop his disguise and do his own shopping. He probably needs to pick up some potion ingredients from Knockturn Alley, which he can't exactly do with two students in tow."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Harry.

"Another reason the Hat should not have considered you for Slytherin," teased Draco.

"Believe you want, Draco," said Harry, obviously trying not to appear affected by Draco's teasing. "The Hat knew what it was doing."

"Exactly. Which is why you ended up in Gryffindor, not Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Whatever, ferret," said Harry. Now go change your clothes before Snape gets here."

"No fair using the F-word," said Draco, getting up to go to change. He smelled, and he knew it. A shower would be nice—but not a bath. That bathroom still held a few too many memories for his liking.

Harry laughed. "Ferret, ferret, ferret. Now, go wash up," Harry said, shooing Draco out of the kitchen.

After cleaning up, Harry went to wash and change as well. He took a quick shower in the small bathroom connected to his room and changed. He made sure to pick clothes he wouldn't normally wear—Snape had said there would be no wearing of Muggle clothes, so that narrowed it down to robes. He didn't want to wear any school robes, so that juts left the black robes he had received for his birthday—though he couldn't quite remember whom they were from. He figured this would be a great occasion to try them out, at least.

Harry dressed and walked down to the living room, where Draco was already waiting in black robes of his own with silver trim. "Severus should be here momentarily," Draco said. "He floo'd to say he would be just a little late—he mentioned the Headmaster was being his usually quirky self and did not, as of yet, have the disguise charms ready."

Harry nodded and sat on the couch to wait, firmly denying any thoughts that Draco might look good in those robes. Moments later, to Harry's relief, Severus appeared in the floo. He rose to greet Severus, who ignored him and turned to Draco, giving him a small smile. Harry was momentarily surprised at the show of affection, but then remembered that Draco had recently been on the verge of dying and Snape had every right to be glad of Draco's well-being.

"I see you are both looking dramatically better than you did a few days ago. Here are the charms. Potter, this one will grow out your hair a little so it hides your scar, so make sure to brush your bangs over your forehead."

Harry nodded and downed the potion. He felt his hair lengthen, watched as his skin grew a little darker, and winced as his face changed, bones shifting to make his face more defined. Draco's potion worked similarly, changing his hair color to a darker shade of blonde (the platinum was a bit obvious) and making his eyes a darker blue. Harry shrugged—at least no one would be asking for his autograph or staring at him incessantly or whispering behind his back today.

"Good enough. We'll be doomed if anyone looks closely, but it should do for a short period of time. I know I don't have to tell you, Draco, but you need to both make sure you do not call each other by name. Few know where you are, Draco, and the Headmaster and I would like to keep it that way until you are safely at Hogwarts. There are a few Death Eaters who would greatly appreciate the Dark Lord's affection for handing you over."

Draco nodded. "I don't have to be warned twice, that's for sure," he said. "I'd rather not be bowing, scraping, and kissing robes for the rest of my life."

Severus nodded. "Then we will be going to Gringotts first. There, the Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Granger, and Mr. Zabini will meet you both. You may go your separate ways or stay together; it is of no concern to me. We will meet back at Gringotts at precisely two o'clock, and, Mr. Potter, if you are late, I will not be happy. Do not get into trouble." Severus handed each a small coin. "This is a Portkey, if you get in trouble; do not use it unless you have to, but if you sense danger, get out immediately. It will transport any who touch it, so make sure your friends are safe, and, if necessary, bring them with you."

Harry nodded, taking the coin, turning it over in his hand, and placing it in a small pocket in his robe within easy reach. "In that case, I will floo first to make sure everything is alright. Please, do not follow too closely—we do not wish to draw suspicion upon us."

Snape was quickly through the floo, leaving Harry and Draco to make their way as well. Draco turned to Harry, smiling, which Harry found odd considering the potion. "In other words, he doesn't want to be seen with kids," said Draco mirthfully. "I'll go first, I guess."

Harry nodded. He watched as Draco floo'd, waited a few moments, then followed. He felt the chimney closing in on him, spinning him around, dust clogging his senses. His glasses had been discarded in the living room with a temporary vision-fixing spell (sadly, it did not last for more than a day, so Harry could not use it to permanently fix his sight), which he was thankful for, because worrying about his glasses had always been the worst part. That, and the motion sickness he felt as he was spit out of the fireplace, landing in a heap on the floor, while everyone looked at him and resisted laughing. He wasn't sure how anyone could be so graceful when traveling through the floo—Harry just couldn't manage it.

"Really," said Draco, "did you not ever learn how to floo properly? You look a little green, you know." Draco reached a hand down to help Harry off the ground. Harry, having turned seventeen and finally out from under the wizarding magic restrictions, said a quick spell that cleaned his clothes and face off.

"I learned, but I'm not exactly good at it."

"No kidding. Come, let's go. He's already way ahead of us," Draco said, careful not to use any names. Frankly, Harry thought everyone was being a little overly-cautious, but he wasn't about to argue. He didn't want people fawning over him, and he didn't want Voldemort to attack him, and if this was what he had to do to get such results, he was willing to play along.

"Right behind you," said Harry, keeping to Draco's brisk pace easily. Once out of the pub, he walked beside Draco. It was a wonderful feeling, not to have anyone staring after him or questioning why he would be in public with Draco. It was nice to be unseen for once.

"There's Snape," said Harry, catching a glimpse of him through the crowds.

"No names," said Draco, glaring at Harry.

"Sorry. No one can hear us, though, and it's not like anyone's paying attention. It's not like someone's going to jump out and grab us."

"You'd be surprised," said Draco, keeping his eyes on Snape. They were taking a slightly round-about way to get to Gringotts, but Draco had suspected that. Harry fell silent and decided to leave the sneaky parts to the Slytherins and not ask questions, for questions only drew sarcastic and condescending responses out of Draco and Severus both.

Soon they had arrived at the large doors of the famous bank, despite the detour, and Harry could see Severus already talking to the trolls, handing what must be his or Draco's keys over. Harry drew out his own key for his vault and handed it to an attendant that came to him. The troll nodded and, he, Draco, and Severus went down through the vaults on their own, each emerging half an hour later with a sum of money in their pockets. Harry was kind of glad he hadn't been accompanied by either Snape or Draco—he was always uncomfortable with the amount of money he had, and it had recently gotten into the Daily Prophet just how extensive his estimated fortune was. In reality, Harry knew it to be slightly less than the papers suggested, but not by a lot.

Upon rejoining with Draco, Severus turned to them both. "Your friends are right over there," Severus said, gesturing to a corner. "I will see you both in two hours, right inside the door."

Harry and Draco walked over to the corner together. Hermione was the first to spot them in their disguises, gesturing to both Ron and Blaise (Harry had to give her kudos for not shunning Blaise). Harry smiled and waved, despite the glare he received from Draco for drawing attention to himself.

"Hey guys," Harry said as he reached the corner. "Hey Blaise," he said, offering a large smile to Draco's friend. He received a polite nod and a smile in return, and Blaise and Draco immediately began talking. Harry turned his attention to Ron and Hermione. "It's good to see you two outside the house," he said.

Hermione hugged him and Ron patted him on the back. "You, too, mate."

"Where do we go first?" asked Hermione, a large smile gracing her face. Really, she had grown into her hair, Harry thought. It was no longer as large and bushy as he had once remembered it to be.

Harry turned to Draco and Blaise, who were chatting enthusiastically about the latest Quidditch match, which Draco had yet to hear the results of. "Where are you two going first?" he asked.

Draco turned, offering a polite nod to Ron and Hermione. "Neither of us need new robes, so we were going to go to get our books first. Then Potion supplies, probably."

Harry nodded. "That sounds good to me," he turned to Ron and Hermione, "unless you two object to going with Blaise and Draco. If we all want to split up, that's fine."

Ron grimaced, but Hermione elbowed him; they exchanged a look that must have referred to something they had talked about previously, Harry figured, and Ron looked sullenly at his feet. "We see no reason to split up when we're all going to get the same things," she said brightly. "Anyways, there's a new book out on Griffins that I was hoping to get—it has some new information on their mating habits that's supposed to be really interesting."

"Really, Hermione, you're strange," said Harry, eliciting a laugh from everyone in the group, though it was tentatively coming from Blaise and Draco.

Hermione smiled and shook her head. "So I've been told. However, I have this nasty habit of tuning out insults when it comes to my intelligence, and I don't really care in the first place."

Harry smiled, and they all turned as a group to walk towards the bookshop, Harry and Draco in the middle so as to mitigate any tension.

Once they arrived at the shop, each went his or her separate way to find the necessary books. Harry was skimming the shelves for DADA, trying to find the appropriate book, when he bumped into someone. "Oh, sorry," said Harry, turning around to see who he had nearly run over.

"It's alright," said Blaise, who had been knocked into a shelf. A few books had fallen off, and Harry bent to pick them up. "How are you doing, Harry?" he asked.

Harry wasn't sure if he was comfortable already being on a first-name basis with Blaise when they had spent so long as virtual enemies, if only by common house-rivalries and a relationship with Draco, each in his own fashion, but he wasn't about to argue it. "I'm doing quite well, actually. How have you been since your visit?"

"Bored, but that's to be expected when you're at my house. I'm glad school is starting soon, despite the homework and classes and all. It gives me a chance to be around people who actually stand a chance of being interesting."

Harry gave a small chuckle. "I know a little of how you feel. I'll be glad to be out of that house for a while—though it's been better since I've had Draco as company, it's still quite oppressive. I'll like the change of scenery."

"How is he?" Blaise asked, a worried look gracing his face, knowing that Harry would tightly assume he was speaking about Draco. "I'm not as able to read him as I used to be, and I worry about him."

"He's fine," said Harry, smiling. "He's eating and he seems happy," said Harry, trying to force the blush he knew was rising back where it belonged. Really, of all times to think of the events of yesterday…

"That's good to hear," said Blaise, smiling. He reached across the aisle to a book, pulling it out and handing it to Harry. "I think this was what you were looking for. Be careful—if you turn it to page sixty-three, it will give you a demonstration of a banshee's scream, and that could be quite unpleasant."

"Thanks," said Harry, turning to go to the Transfiguration section, where the next book he needed was.

Blaise walked down the aisle, a smug grin on his face. Like he wouldn't be able to read Draco—pheh. It was nice that there were still some people in this world who didn't know he was a master at reading people, especially those he knew. The blush had been a dead give-away. Draco hadn't mentioned anything about it, but Blaise knew that something had gone on yesterday, and he was determined to find out—and once Blaise had a goal, he worked nonstop at reaching it. Now he knew, for sure, that something had happened—and it was likely a kiss, though he wasn't sure just yet. Oh, how he loved a mystery.

Moments later, Harry met Draco in searching for the same book as he was. The store was busy, and the shopkeeper was helping others; Harry had decided not to wait, and it seemed that no one else was waiting for the help, either. They gave each other a look, and both burst out laughing.

"It's hilarious, isn't it? They're acting like sullen kids, having to spend time with each other," said Harry.

"Yes, it's quite amusing. The death glares I keep receiving from Ron are amusing, and Hermione is obviously just too chipper, trying to act like there's nothing strange about walking around Diagon Alley with me and Blaise."

"Blaise is handling it quite well, actually. He just ignores them except to be polite—and whenever he's polite, Ron gets that look that's somewhere between outrage and confusion. It's all just wonderful," said Harry, smiling gleefully. "If I had known it would be this amusing, I would have suggested we all get together much sooner."

Draco laughed. "Yes, I happen to agree. Oh, look—there's the book we need. I'm about done. You?"

"I still need my Potions book," Harry said, looking at his list.

"I know where it is; follow me."

"Thanks," Harry said, following him down the narrow aisles and accepting a book from him. "I never would have found it," he said, smiling as he took it."

"Yes, we know; you have no sense of…well, anything. You're hopeless, actually."

Harry smiled. "Oh, and like you're better. When we went to that restaurant—the look on your face as that toilet flushed! And the telephone!"

Draco scowled. "Oh, hush. I don't want any more people knowing about either of those things than have to."

"Get over it. No one even knows who we are, so it's not like anyone will connect the stories to you." They started walking to the front, where a long line was waiting to pay for books. It was moving slowly, due to the sheer number of people and the lack of interest from the person behind the cash register.

"I don't want to take any chances. You have no idea how bad it is when people get something to make fun of you with in Slytherin—I would hear about it in thirty years when meeting an old dorm-mate in a small shop that no one ever visits due to its size and location."

Harry laughed. "Then I'll have to make sure to tell everyone I can."

Hermione, Ron and Blaise were waiting outside when Harry and Draco walked out from the bookstore, the three attempting to make polite conversation and failing miserably. Harry and Draco exchanged a mirthful glance, and the five headed off to the Potions shop. Ron did not need any materials, but Harry had managed to get into Potions NEWTS by sheer luck. Hermione, Draco and Blaise, of course, had made it in the class easily, but Harry wasn't sure if he should be allowed to even touch a cauldron in that classroom. Hopefully this year would be better, with a smaller class and more intelligent people that were less likely to make mistakes. Harry had heard that even Neville had made the Potions requirements with his OWLs, having more confidence around an objective test-giver than around Professor Snape, but had declined to take the course for fear of what his dreaded Potions Professor would do to him.

Getting the required potions was completed with little effort. Then the group decided to go their separate ways and pick up any other necessary supplies. Harry and Draco, without consulting the others, planned to meet to get some ice cream at one-thirty. Harry held back a laugh at Hermione and Ron's looks of horror, and he gave a knowing smile to Draco. And they had thought they had been safe…

Draco and Blaise headed to the Quidditch store, Draco complaining about the lack of knowledge he had on the recent events in the Quidditch world. They immediately bought a monthly magazine, which Draco placed gently in a bag for reading later. They then examined all the newest items, from gloves to the latest broom to a new toys, which consisted of a regular-sized snitch that would carry messages around, and another one that had a small figure flying around it in random patterns. The figure and snitch hovered a few inches in the air, while the miniature person on a broom flew up, down and around, doing little tricks. The card that stood next to it said you could even teach the broom-stick-person to do new tricks, like spin and stand on his broom. Draco was curious as to how that was possible, but he decided against buying the little toy; though he was rich, his assets were mostly frozen due to his parent's incapacitation, and would be so until they either died or he turned eighteen, receiving his trust fund. After his trust fund, he would have to wait until they died or were sentenced to life in Azkaban to inherit the rest of the immense fortune that would one day be his.

Draco and Blaise strolled until they found an unoccupied bench situated a ways away from the masses of people that strolled through the alley, shopping and talking and ignoring just about everything around them.

"So," Blaise finally said as he checked to make sure they would not be overheard, "How have the past couple days been?" he asked.

"They've gone well," said Draco, a smile gracing his lips, his emotions (for the most part) hidden behind it.

"How so?" Blaise asked, his eyebrows raising to signify that he knew more than he was letting on.

"We've been having fun, is all. We started the new puzzle, and we had ice cream last night. We found this old phonograph in the attic—it's pretty cool. It plays music on these records, and I've never heard the music, but some of it's nice."

"And?"

Draco looked out into the crowds, pretending to study the people as they walked by. There went a gaudily dressed woman in a pink wizarding hat, and a man with a horrid checkered tie. "Nothing else has happened, Blaise."

"Dray, you, at least, should know that I'm better at reading people than just about anyone else. You know I know more than that. Now, I'll give you a chance to spill before I burst your own bubble, but that chance isn't going to last for long." Blaise knew the use of Draco's nickname would be okay, especially considering their distance from all other people and the scarcity of people who knew that his nickname for his friend.

Draco looked at Blaise, resigned to his fate. "Sometimes, I really hate you," he said.

"I know. So spill it, lover-boy."

"He kissed me, alright? Happy now?"

Blaise smiled, a gleam in his eyes. "I knew it! Details! Now!"

"We came down from the attic, and he turned to ask me something. When he turned, he was too close, and I didn't want to kiss him, so I tried to brush past him—but he stuck his arm out and turned me towards him and kissed me. Oh, Blaise, it was so great—like our first kiss, but so much better."

Blaise's look faltered for a moment, but Draco was still too dreamy to notice it. "Oh, Dray, that makes me so happy! I knew it would come—I just _knew_ when I put that idea in your head it would happen soon!"

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited. He ran away almost immediately, and it's been a relatively uncomfortable silence for a while now. Late last night wasn't too bad a silence, nor this morning—but yesterday afternoon and dinner? Oh, that was bad. Very, very bad. He doesn't want to talk about it either. I don't think he's quite ready to admit he's attracted to me, if he is in the first place. Who knows—it might have been a fluke," said Draco, though the dreamy look on his face belied his true thoughts.

"Oh, Dray, there's no way he could be anything but enamored with you. I asked him earlier how you were doing—pretending not to be able to read you so I could read him instead—and he was blushing and smiling. He certainly likes you, but he's not sure what to do about it yet."

Draco smiled. "How very Slytherin of you, Blaise," he said, smiling. "Thanks for the investigation, though. I wasn't sure for a moment—he looked terrified at what he had done when he raced to the kitchen."

"Oh, he was probably just nervous and scared of the implications of his actions. I'm pretty sure that, if he didn't know already, he knows of his sexuality. It will just take a little while to adjust to the fact that it's _you_ he's attracted—you can be a quite intimidating boyfriend, and I should know."

Draco smiled. "It really was wonderful, Blaise."

Blaise smiled indulgently. "I knew it would be, Dray. You should trust me more often."

"I do trust you, idiot," said Draco. He looked at the time, seeing it was a quarter past one. "Let's go a little early so we can be sure to get a seat that will fit all of us."

"Right, then. And I'll ignore that you're just eager to see him," Blaise teased. Draco felt the color rise in his cheeks, but he firmly pushed the red back down—unlike Harry, he had that mastered.

They arrived just in time to get a good table near the back of the room where they could watch all the traffic going in and out and still fit all five people. Blaise drew up a chair when one appeared, for the table was only fit for four people, and Harry and his friends arrived soon after.

Moments later, all five were seated with their favorite ice creams—Harry and Draco with chocolate, Hermione with Vanilla, Ron with pistachio (Harry had never heard of that), and Blaise with orange sherbet. Blaise erected a small silencing charm so that they wouldn't have to fear anyone overhearing their conversation and so they could use names in comfort (it could get quite interesting referring to both Draco and Harry without actually using names), but the conversation was at a minimal, for everyone was absorbed in the ice cream. However, when the snack was finished, there was no more excuse to avoid talking.

"So," started Hermione uncomfortably, "is anyone looking forward to going back to school than me?"

"I am, actually," said Blaise as the other three grimaced. "My house is all too boring for my tastes."

"Ah. So it's not for the school-side of it, is it? And here I was hoping to have another intellectual to talk with."

"Oh, I assure you I'm intellectual, Hermione, but I am far from the kind who enjoys school just for the fun of it." Everyone stoutly ignored Blaise's use of Hermione's first name, deciding he was just quirky. Ron, though, looked both confused and outraged—like usual.

"Yeah, 'Mione, like I said earlier, you're just strange," said Harry, drawing another laugh from everyone.

"'Mione, I keep telling you that books are not the most important thing in the world," said Ron.

"And you have yet to tell me what would take their place," retorted Hermione. This was obviously a longstanding discussion, though it was new even to Harry. He briefly lamented the lack of time he had been able to spend with Ron and Hermione over the summer, despite their regular visits, but he wouldn't let himself get bogged down in depression over something that couldn't be helped.

"You're still coming for the last week, right?" he asked. They had been planning since the beginning of summer to spend the last week of summer together at Grimmauld Place, and he was hoping that it would still be going on. He realized too late that he had yet to tell Draco of the plans, and he hoped Draco wouldn't be angry or anything.

"Of course, Harry. I'll be arriving around noon tomorrow, if that's alright. And we'll go to King's Cross together, of course."

Draco shot Harry a look, and Harry smiled apologetically. Blaise didn't miss the look, and neither did Hermione, but it seemed Ron was oblivious to everything except the second ice cream he had ordered—strawberry, this time. It seemed that there was every flavor of ice cream imaginable in this place, Harry thought—even Tomato and Basil, he thought, grimacing. Really? Tomato and Basil? Who would even think of such a combination for ice cream?

"Yeah, mate," Ron said, a little ice cream having found its way onto his cheek and nose, "I'll be getting there shortly after. Mum says that I can bring my new owl with me, too," he said happily. Ron had recently received an owl for a present (in addition to the 'o-mighty-annoying one,' as Ron dubbed the small bundle of too-much energy that served as his only owl before) for becoming prefect (to everyone's great surprise). Harry had told Dumbledore at the beginning of summer that he had no desire to be prefect, so the duty and been given to Ron and Hermione together, which Harry found perfectly suitable (though it might put a damper on any sneaking out from Hermione's side, he knew he would have no problem when it came to Ron).

"That's great," said Harry, beaming at his two friends and sending another apologetic look at Draco, who was sullenly sipping a milkshake he had ordered. Harry was just happy that he didn't have to force Draco to eat as much any more, though he was sure that Blaise's added presence was helping a little.

In a flash of brilliance, Harry turned to Blaise. "Would you like to come as well, Blaise?" he asked. "I know Draco would go crazy if it were just me, Ron and 'Mione, and you said you were bored at your house anyways. This should solve all problems," he said brightly. "I'm sure Dumbledore won't mind, if it's only for a week."

Blaise smiled, grateful for Harry's thinking. He was at first disappointed that Harry and Draco wouldn't have any more time to be alone together and possibly develop their relationship, but he would be able to get them time alone this way. He was even more grateful that Harry didn't realize the opportunity he was giving Blaise. "That's very kind of you, Harry," he said. "I accept, but I'll have to arrive the day after tomorrow. I need time to pack and get things arranged at my house."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You mean you'll need time to say goodbye to your precious plants and pet snakes. Don't kid yourself, Blaise."

Blaise turned a glare upon Draco. "I'll have you know that Lucilia is a sentient being," said Blaise haughtily.

Draco turned to Harry, Ron and Hermione and, eyes mirthful and voice mocking, said, "Lucilia is his favorite Geranium."

Ron and Harry held back laughs, and Hermione turned a curious, interesting look upon Blaise. "A geranium? What spell did you use?"

"Oh, you've gotten her interested," warned Harry. "You'll never hear her stop talking now."

"Oh, no worries," said Draco, just barely containing his laughter. "It's just a regular geranium, no spells added. He's just quite attached to his _dear_ Lucilia."

Ron and Harry couldn't help it anymore—they burst out laughing, and even Hermione had to hold back a small grin as Blaise sat sullenly in his chair.

"See if you're ever allowed near her again, Malfoy," warned Blaise.

"Oh darn, no more Lucilia," he said sarcastically. "And that would mean I wouldn't have to see Gina, Mari, Margaret, Carmen, or Steve, either." Draco turned to Harry, Ron and Hermione, saying conspiratorially, "Carmen and Steve don't like me much."

"Flowers can hold grudges?" asked Ron, laughter choking his voice until it was almost impossible to understand. "Oh, that's priceless.

"No, Carmen and Steve are garden snakes," said Blaise. "They protect my plants."

"They don't like me much, apparently, because I don't take care of the plants properly. Still, not having to see any of them means I also won't have to see Sara, Pittie, Alexandra, Cleopatra, Dite—she's named after Aphrodite," said Draco in an aside, "or Jasmine, Ariel, Jordan—"

"That's enough, Dray," said Blaise, cutting him off. "You don't have to list all of them."

"But it's so much fun," said Draco.

"How do you remember all of them?" asked Harry, mirthful tears brimming at his eyes.

"Oh, see, that's the best part. I used to make up stories about who was sleeping with who to help me remember. See, Lucilia—that's his prize Geranium, actually—was deeply in love with Alexandra, but Alexandra was having a torrid affair with both Sara and Margaret. And Gina was always pining away after Lucilia, but, since she couldn't have the prize Geranium, she was sleeping with Ariel and Jasmine. Of course, it became interesting since they were all lesbians—I figure Steve, the only guy in the bunch, got a kick out of watching them all. There must be some great flower porn out there."

Blaise rolled his eyes and said dryly, "He got this idea after I said that flowers don't have sex, they just have pollen, which is spread indiscriminately to all flowers."

"Ergo, they're all lesbians, since they don't care who they have kids with."

Ron, Harry, and even Hermione were all consumed with laughter by this point, and Draco was laughing gleefully with them. Only Blaise was silent, and he took the opportunity that, even though the story was slightly embarrassing (though he wouldn't ever stop caring over his plants, he was loathe to admit that it was quite a strange hobby, and so he understood the jokes he received), it served to unite all of them through laughter. Blaise was amazed that such a simple story would cause the barriers to be dropped, if only for a little while, between five people who had often been at one another's throats. Of course, he knew that, once the laughter died, the discomfort would return, but it was a start.

Hermione, having finally stopped laughing, looked at her watch and frowned. "That can't be right—it's well after two o'clock."

Harry and Draco sat bolt upright and looked at her. "Are you sure?" Draco asked.

"Yes, I'm quite sure—two twenty-three, to be exact."

"We have to go," said Draco urgently, grabbing Harry's hand and dragging him behind. "See you all soon!" he said, not even noticing that he was treating Hermione and Ron like he would any friend.

Hermione, Ron, and Blaise looked at the retreating backs of Harry and Draco as they raced down to Gringotts. "Looks like I overestimated a little," she said. Both Blaise and Ron turned curious looks on her. Hermione shrugged, saying, "They've got about ten minutes, but at that rate, they'll arrive at least five minutes early."

"Oh, you evil, evil lady," said Blaise appreciatively. "There was no way they'd get back in time if we all said our goodbyes, was there—too much distraction and delay, and then they'd be late. This way, they'll have plenty of time, and, since we're seeing each other soon, there's no need for lengthy goodbyes."

Hermione smiled. "You've got me figured out, Blaise," she said, trying to treat her with the same respect as he did by using his first name.

Ron smiled. "I never would of thought of that, 'Mione. Good going."

"We know you'd never think of it, Ron. We have other reasons to keep you around, because we know you're not going to come up with that plan."

As Ron tried to figure out what she meant, Hermione and Blaise said their polite goodbyes, promising to see each other in two days and have a small chess game and a discussion on Geraniums. Ron knew she wouldn't stop looking up Geraniums now, and he also knew he wouldn't want to be around for that discussion. He shook Blaise's hand as they parted ways—how strange, to be friendly with a person he had thought he hated only a few months ago—and he and Hermione returned to the Burrow to pack the rest of their things.

**xxx**

Harry and Draco arrived inside of Gringotts to find a calm Professor Snape standing in a corner, waiting for their arrival. They looked at each other cautiously, thinking that Severus should have been looking at least a little annoyed.

"Let's be off, then," said Snape, heading for the door as soon as they'd arrived.

Draco, confused, asked, "What time is it?"

Snape turned back to him. "Of all my favorite students, I would think you would know. I assume you are the one who checked your watch to make sure you'd be on time—I appreciate that you're a little early even, as I only had to wait a few moments."

"Sir, you didn't answer my question," he said.

"It is one fifty-six."

Harry and Draco turned a look upon each other. "She—" started Harry, dumbfounded.

"_She_ should have been in Slytherin," said Draco, beginning to accept that Hermione had lied to them to make sure they would be on time.

"Maybe," said Harry amazedly as they followed Severus out of Gringotts so they could floo home.

**xxx**

After unpacking his things, Draco began skimming the Quidditch magazine he had gotten. He quickly put it down, knowing he would want more time to devote to it so he could read it cover-to-cover in one sitting, for he wouldn't tolerate being interrupted once he had gotten into it.

He headed down to the living room, where Harry was once again working on the puzzle. "Do you ever stop?" Draco asked, referring to the puzzle, which had a significant amount finished, though it was harder than the first and taking a much longer time already.

"Not really," said Harry. "Once I start a puzzle, it takes a lot to make me leave it."

"No kidding" said Draco as he sat down, picking a piece at random and trying it in all the places he could, knowing it was probably futile, for it most likely belong somewhere in the middle of the puzzle, where there were yet to be pieces to attach it to. "So when were you going to tell me that Ron and Hermione were coming over tomorrow?" he asked, no longer really angry about it, but curious to know.

"Sorry—it slipped my mind. I'm sure I would have told you tonight, but it's been planned for so long that I didn't remember it was happening."

"Thanks for inviting Blaise to keep me company—I know he'll appreciate getting out of the house, and I certainly appreciate not having to deal with just Ron and Hermione."

"You know, I think Ron and Hermione are actually starting to accept you, and that means they'll soon be enjoying you're presence—especially if you make them laugh like you did today. Anyways, I'll be enjoying Blaise's presence, too. He seems to add spice to everything he's in."

"Oh, you have no idea—pranks with him can be tremendously funny and very innovative."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful to pull of a prank, just the five of us? No one would suspect us, since we're from different houses and all," Harry mused out loud.

"Potter, you're a genius!" Draco exclaimed. "We can plan a prank to pull off—and it's really good and well planned, we can pull it off at the first breakfast or something. No one will suspect us—not only because we're all supposed to hate each other, but because we supposedly haven't had any contact, except in our separate groups, all summer. It would have to hit the entire school indiscriminately, of course, so that it could be anything, but it can be done."

Harry laughed. "Do you get this way every time you plan pranks, Malfoy?"

Draco nodded enthusiastically. "I live for pranks—they give me a chance to express my sneaky, funny, and sometimes cruel side. There was a year in which no one was safe in Slytherin dorm, not even Professor Snape. Between Blaise and I, with Crabbe and Goyle as our henchmen, sent to do everything instead of us so they'd be blamed, there was no safety."

Harry laughed. "I would have killed to see that," he said. "How'd you hide it from the rest of the school? I'm sure we all would have heard about something like that."

"We only did little pranks—nothing obvious that would draw attention—and what happens in Slytherin generally stays in Slytherin. We're a close-knit group of people, contrary to popular belief that we're all just scheming for world domination or something like that, and we don't like everyone knowing what's going on in our dorms."

"It would be great to pull of a prank between all of us—I'm sure that, in the history of the school, there have probably been very few pranks with Gryffindor and Slytherin as co-conspirators, if any at all. We'd be making history, in a sense."

Draco sat back in his chair. "Great. I'll start planning the basics now, and when Blaise gets here—well, you'll just have to watch him in action. He's pretty amazing when it comes to pranking people."

"I can't wait," said Harry. "And I'm glad you're not angry that Ron and Hermione are coming for the last week."

"It's not like I have a lot of choice in the matter. At least you were kind enough to invite Blaise so I won't be the only Slytherin. It doesn't really bother me that much anymore, anyways, as pranks are so much more important than petty rivalries in the first place."

Harry smiled. "Still, I can see you're making an effort not to hate my friends."

Draco looked mysteriously at Harry. "Or am I?" he asked playfully. "For all you know, I could just be plotting to kidnap you three; I'll use Hermione for her brains, and brainwash Ron so that he'll be my bodyguard. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with you, yet—maybe make you a slave. It will be deliciously satisfying to see the Boy-Who-Lived humiliated, a slave at my feet."

"And look, you even used their first names—it's so nice of you to make an effort," said Harry, a grin on his face as he realized he had caught Draco.

"Dammit! I must be losing my touch," said Draco. "I shouldn't have used their names." He sighed mournfully over his momentary lack of intelligence.

"Or maybe the Sorting Hat was wrong to put you in Slytherin, as well? Maybe you should be a Gryffindor—or, no, you're not bold enough for that. You'd have to be a Hufflepuff, then, since you're not intelligent enough to be in Ravenclaw."

Draco looked aghast. "Hufflepuff? Only the wishy-washy people go there. I will have you know that I am perfectly intelligent enough to be in Ravenclaw, I don't wish to be in Gryffindor, and the Sorting Hat made the only correct choice when he put me in Slytherin—there can be no other place for a Malfoy. We have all the right characteristics, of course—we're sneaky, intelligent, cunning, self-righteous and dignified. The Sorting Hat never lies about where he places you."

"Right. Which is why it told me I would have done well in Slytherin?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised and smile playing on his lips.

"I said he never lied about where he places you—he is perfectly able to lie when he's deciding where you're going, and he most certainly did so when he said you would have done well in my house."

"Whatever you wish to believe, Malfoy," Harry said indulgently. "Now, I believe it's time for dinner—don't argue, because that ice cream was most certainly not considered dinner. I already let you get away without lunch, you know—there's no way you're getting yourself out of this one."

Draco sighed resignedly and followed Harry into the kitchen. "Yes, you'd most certainly be a slave, I believe," he mused aloud. "That way, you would never have the courage to command me to do anything."

"Oh, I would have the courage, alright—I'm a Gryffindor, remember?"

"Right, sorry. You'd never have the authority to do so, though you would certainly be unintelligent enough to try," said Draco, laughing and sitting at the counter across from Harry.

"Oh, you are too funny, Malfoy. You're retorts and comebacks are the cream of the crop," Harry said sarcastically, his voice smothered with disdain.

"You have no idea," said Draco, smiling. It seemed things were looking up, he said. No uncomfortable silence, Blaise, pranks, and that wonderful kiss to think about. How could it get better, really? Other than ravishing each other right here on the kitchen table, Draco didn't really think it could.

**xxx**

A/N: Look! Another abnormally long chapter for me! You should all dance for me now! Dance, my puppets! And, while dancing, Johnny commands that you **review**! That should be interesting to watch.


	20. Progress

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 20: Progress**

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating.** Isent the chapter off to my lovely newbeta, Emily. Not only is she a beta (and the newest addition to our writing crew), but she's a Brit-picker who has promised to take away my horrid little Americanisms. Therefore, expect an increase in British-ness and a decrease in me-ness. Oh—and a decrease in stupid mistakes. Three cheers for betas! Three cheers for Emily!

**xxx**

Draco was working on the puzzle when Hermione floo'd into the house, landing gracefully and perfectly clean on the small rug placed directly in front of the fireplace for that purpose. "I knew it wasn't that hard," Draco muttered.

"Hmm?" asked Hermione, a little surprised by Draco's friendly manner.

"Harry appears to have difficulty using the floo. At first, I thought it was just because he had to learn it late in his life, but you've had the same amount of time and you can do it perfectly. It's just him."

"Harry's like that with most wizarding transport, excluding brooms. He can't floo, and never has been able to. He throws up after using a Portkey and can barely walk for hours later, and he's almost been run over by the Knight Bus—not to mention how sick he felt after that, but I don't think that's just him, in that case."

Harry walked in, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "Don't make fun of me because I have no sense of balance and therefore cannot deal with most wizard transport. It's just not fair that it took you three tries to floo perfectly—you're abnormal."

"Contrary to your beliefs and example, Harry, most people are perfectly capable of using the floo perfectly within a few times of trying it."

"How can someone so balanced on a broom be completely inept at all other forms of wizard transport?" mused Draco, grinning maliciously at Harry. "Really, Harry, you of all people should be able to handle it."

Shortly after, Ron arrived through the floo, showing that, once again, Harry was one of the few and far between that could land neither gracefully nor clean out of the floo. After more commentary on Harry's amusing inability to cope with wizard transport, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco sat down for a light lunch. Blaise had upped his schedule so he would arrive late in the afternoon, so Harry planned to have a large dinner. Draco said Blaise moved up his schedule so he wouldn't have to deal with even more commentary on his beloved plants.

The afternoon was only slightly uncomfortable, as Ron and Hermione had realized that spending time with Draco could be amusing—if strange and slightly undesirable; if they ignored those parts, though, they could pretend to have fun. Pretty soon, they weren't pretending at all. Still, the four parted company, Harry, Ron and Hermione retreating to Harry's room until Blaise arrived.

"Do we really have to put up with Malfoy for the entire week?" complained Ron, more out of habit than anything else.

"Ron, you know you're enjoying some of his jokes," scolded Hermione.

"Yeah, but it's so uncomfortable. Really, Harry, why'd you befriend that git?"

Harry frowned. "He's not really that much of a git, Ron. He's actually quite nice, once you get past the sarcastic shell."

"It's a really thick shell, then, and impervious to most hard objects that might break through."

"You'd be surprised," said Harry. "He's quite fun to be around."

"I know he can be funny, Harry, but he hasn't stopped making jabs and 'Mione and me since we got here," Ron complained, becoming more defensive as he talked.

"Actually, if you'd paid attention, Ron, he's made very few derisive comments to us, and he's trying to be polite," commented Hermione.

"If he's trying, I can't see it," said Ron sourly.

"Ron," said Harry, his voice full of warning, "I know you've never really liked Draco, but you'll have to accept I'm friends with him and that you'll be around him all week."

"And what's with you calling him 'Draco' all of a sudden? You've always called him 'snarky-ferret-git' with me before and never protested, so what's with all this familiarity? He's a prick, Harry, don't you see?"

"Ron," said Harry, his voice low and dangerous, "he's my friend, if you hadn't noticed. I've been calling him Draco for quite a while now, thank you very much. You're the one being a prick, you know—if you'd give him a chance, you'd see he's a good person, if a little messed up."

"Whatever, Harry. I think you're mad for choosing him as a friend, but it appears to be just me." Ron got up and left the room, the door shutting loudly behind him.

"You know," said Hermione quietly, "you have been pretty close to Malfoy lately. I know you guys are friends, but have you ever thought that he might be using you? That he might be befriending you so he can—"

"Don't say it, Hermione," cut off Harry, his voice warning. "I like you, and I understand that you're both skeptical about my friendship with Draco, but you haven't been here to see it happen—you don't know anything about him, and you're judging him. Admittedly, I've done so in the past, too, so I can see why Ron's bitter—but just don't even think anything about him being a Death Eater in disguise, or I swear on Merlin's grave that you and Ron both will be out of this house so fast you won't know what spell I've used or where you ended up."

"Alright. I'll go talk to Ron, okay? I'm sure he'll come around soon. And I'm sure that, once we get to know him, we'll see what you see in him. But—while that happens, will you be careful? Please? We worry about you, you know. We care."

Harry softened a little. "I know you care, and I'll be careful, but I assure you that there's nothing to be careful about. You'll see—he's a good person. Confused and strange, but good. Ron probably went to the attic; Draco's downstairs still, so I'm sure he didn't go that way. I'll see you two at dinner, okay? It should be around seven."

Hermione left to find Ron, and Harry stayed on his bed, thinking. He understood Ron, really—if the places were switched, he'd probably be hurt, too, when it appeared that his best friend had suddenly befriended a supposed enemy, and with so much apparent ease and comfort. They had each said things that escalated the fight that, if Ron's first complaint had been seen for what it was, a habit, probably never would have happened. Still, it hurt more than Harry cared to admit that Ron was so angry about his friendship with Draco.

Harry headed down to the living room and joined Draco silently in working on the puzzle. After a moment of silence, Draco asked, "What happened?"

Harry looked up at Draco, who was sitting across from him, concerned look on his face. "Nothing, really. Just a little fight, but with Ron, little fights come often. Thankfully, they also tend to go away once he's realized the situation, and then he pretends it never happened."

"How long do they take to go away?"

"Depends on how bad the fight was, and this one wasn't too terrible, in comparison to some of the others we've had. I'm not sure, though—he tends to be a bit capricious. Still, everything will be okay sooner or later," said Harry optimistically, though he didn't raise his eyes to meet Draco's. "When does Blaise get here, again?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

Draco, seeing the diversionary tactic for what it was, allowed Harry to avoid the issue. Some things, he knew, he couldn't help, especially if this was a fight about himself, as he suspected. "He said it should be some time between five and six." Draco looked at the clock. "That gives us a little over an hour, if we estimate he'll be here closer to five than six, which he probably will be."

"Good. It will give Ron some time to cool off. Hermione will probably convince him to try to act civil tonight, at least, though it probably won't be very comfortable."

"Blaise has a knack at making uncomfortable situations more comfortable—he's very good at reading people, so he's good at avoiding uncomfortable situations and manipulating a conversation to make everyone laugh. My guess is, yesterday, he knew I would bring up his Geraniums, which is why he said he'd come tomorrow. That diffused the tension, and then he was able to agree to come earlier, after we were home and safe from uncomfortable silences."

"That would be nice to have around all the time," said Harry, though he was thinking of what Blaise had said about not being able to read Draco—was he being manipulative then? Harry's instincts screamed yes, though he couldn't imagine what Blaise was trying to get at by asking him how Draco was doing.

"It's wonderful at parties," said Draco. "It makes being around old people who have known you since birth so much more interesting. You know, the ones who have been around to change your nappies? I hate those parties, but he makes them enjoyable."

"I can see why you loved him," said Harry softly, watching how Draco's eyes lit up when he was talking about Blaise.

"Yeah, I loved him," said Draco, equally soft. "But we couldn't work it out."

Really, Harry thought, he might not be as over his fellow Slytherin as he let on. There appeared to be some leftover feelings other than friendship, not counting the brief snogs Draco had mentioned that happened when both were needy, though Draco had clearly said that there were never any deeper feelings behind the kissing and they never went further.

**xxx**

Ten minutes past five, Blaise arrived smoothly through the floo (eliciting a glare from Harry and a teasing laugh from Draco). "Is there something I'm missing?" Blaise asked, looking from Slytherin to Gryffindor and back again.

"Only the discussion on Harry's inability to floo properly, among other things," Draco said, chuckling.

"Those other things being…?" Blaise asked.

"That I can't Portkey or use the Knight Bus, either," Harry finished, rolling his eyes. "Really, is it that amusing that I can't use wizard transport?" he asked.

Blaise smiled. "How could you have problems with the Knight Bus?" he asked. "It's pretty easy to use, despite the speed and recklessness with which it travels."

"It almost ran me over once," said Harry exasperatedly. "I didn't even know I was calling it, actually."

Blaise's smile grew. "That takes skill, I must say. And the floo and Portkeys aren't exactly hard to use, either, you know."

"So they tell me," said Harry dryly; then, deciding to change the subject, he said, "I'm glad you've arrived safely. Now I can start dinner. How are your Geraniums, by the way?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Lucilia is doing well, though I know she'll miss my care. But Carmen and Steve promised to take care of her, along with her friends—no, Draco, not friends with benefits—so I'm trying not to worry. Mum's said I'm allowed to bring Lucilia with me back to school if the Headmaster approves and my grades are still good."

Harry gave a small laugh. "Really, you're bringing your flower to school? And you have to ask the Headmaster to do it in the first place?"

Blaise sighed. "Yes, I do. Now, I hear enough about all of this from Draco every other day of the year, so can we speak of something _other _than my sentient Geraniums for a little while?"

Harry nodded. "Why don't you two keep me company while I make dinner? It might be ready a little early, and Ron and Hermione are just in the attic; I'll just send one of you to get them when it's through."

The two nodded and followed Harry into the kitchen, where he began to work busily. He turned down Blaise's offer of help, preferring not to be interrupted by someone who didn't know exactly what he was doing or exactly where he needed help—Blaise would only be in the way, and that would be a nuisance.

**xxx**

Dinner was ready at ten to seven, and Ron and Hermione had come down a little early to join them. Dinner was chicken, corn, peas, noodles smothered in sauce, and rolls, and everyone seemed enthusiastic about eating. Ron was subdued, choosing to not comment instead of participate in the conversation. Harry sent him an apologetic smile and made a mental note to get him alone a little later so he could talk to his friend.

"So, how are your Geraniums?" asked Hermione politely as she took a bite of food, no sarcasm hinted in her voice.

"They're quite well, thank you. Lucilia looked a little wilted when I mentioned I would be going away earlier than I had planned, but she will be fine. Carmen and Steve will take good care of her." Blaise was still putting food on his plate, as well as adding little amounts to Draco's plate when no one was looking.

"How do you raise your Geraniums?" she asked, showing actual interest in Blaise's hobby.

"Just like any flower, really. Water, sunshine, good soil, and love and care will do just the trick." Blaise took a bite of chicken, nodding his compliments to Harry as he did so.

"Don't let him fool you," said Draco, smiling, "by 'love and care,' he means you have to talk to your Geraniums almost constantly, but you can only be cheerful. It's probably half the reason why Blaise is always happy—he's pretending we're all lesbian Geraniums, so he's always happy and optimistic, even when there's nothing to be happy about."

"Joy," said Harry sarcastically. "We're all lesbian plants." Everyone, including Ron, laughed at that, Hermione nearly spitting the tea she was drinking all over her dinner. Harry smiled as he realized that Draco was right—Blaise seemed to have a knack at making people comfortable.

"You are not all lesbian plants, and my plants aren't lesbians to begin with, thank you very much," said Blaise, pouting. "Draco's just mean and spiteful and jealous of all the care I gave to my plants."

"Sorry, but I'm pretty happy that you don't squirt water in my face every eight hours and twenty-three minutes."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Eight hours and twenty-three minutes?" he asked, taking a sip of tea.

"Geraniums need special care, and I have discovered over the years that spritzing them lightly with water at that regular interval makes them flourish best."

"That eight hours and twenty-three minutes also involves him getting up late at night, I might add," said Draco, mirthful smile gracing his lips. "Every single night he gets up to spray them down and talk to them, cooing and telling them jokes—jokes, I tell you, and they're usually bad ones, too."

"Are they different every time?" asked Ron between two large bites of corn.

"Of course," said Blaise. "Wouldn't you get tired of hearing the same joke every day? I tell them jokes and funny stories whenever I can, though Draco's mistaken—I certainly do not tell jokes every time I water them. I only tell jokes when I can find them."

"I might point out that he didn't deny that they were bad jokes," Draco said.

"It's hard to get jokes—sometimes I have to resort to ones that are not as good as the others."

"And not worth repeating, I might add."

"Why don't you tell us one of your jokes, Blaise," said Hermione, putting her glass of milk down before she heard it so as not to risk tea coming out of her nose again. "I'm sure they're not that bad."

"Alright," he said. Thinking for a minute, he finally asked, "When does it rain money?"

"When?" the other four chorused together.

"When there is a change in the weather," finished Blaise proudly, putting his fork down at the same time.

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Hermione said, "Well…" Then Draco, Harry and Ron broke out in laughter simultaneously, with Hermione soon joining them. "Really," she said through her giggles, "that's pretty bad."

Blaise pouted again. "Well you asked for it, you know," he said, picking his fork back up and sullenly taking a bite of the noodles, which he found he liked the best. "Someone else tell a better joke, then."

"Alright," said Harry. "This bloke calls his house to tell his wife he'll be home late for dinner, but a woman he doesn't know answers he phone. 'Who's this?' he asks, and the girl replies, 'The maid, sir.' 'When did my wife hire you?' he asked. 'This morning, sir.' 'Will you get her for me? I need to talk to her for a moment.' There was silence on the other end, and finally the maid said, 'Sir, I thought the man she went upstairs with was her husband?' she said innocently. Furious, the man decided to do something impulsive. 'Would you like to make $50,000 dollars he asks?' When the maid agreed, he told her to go to the study, get the gun hidden in the desk drawer, and shoot the wife and man she was with. The man heard two shots and, a few moments later, the maid came back to the phone. 'What would you like me to do with the bodies?' she asked. 'Go throw them in the pool outside,' he said. There was silence. 'What pool?' she asked. 'Uh…is this 555-1337?'"

Everyone laughed, and Blaise looked sullen. "Fine. But that must be one of the good jokes in a million."

"I have one, actually," said Ron. "A plane crashes in rural China, leaving only one man the survivor. After wandering around the jungle for hours, he finally comes upon a hut. Knocking on the door, an old man answers, and he asks for a night's food and shelter. The man agrees, but on one condition, 'You no touch my daughter,' he says, 'or you suffer three worst Chinese tortures.'" Ron's voice for the old man was high and shrill, and he gesticulated with his hand as he talked. "The man agrees, thinking that the one requirement would not be hard to fulfill, but, at dinner, the single most beautiful woman he's ever seen serves them dinner. That night, she comes into her room, and, the man, weighing the options—you know, three worst Chinese tortures versus beautiful woman offering herself—well, he chooses the woman, of course." Ron wiggled his eyebrows comically, making everyone laugh, even though the punch line had yet to come.

"Well, the man wakes up the next day and finds a rock on his chest. On it was written, 'First worst Chinese torture: rock on chest.'" Ron was using the voice for the old man again, causing everyone to smile. "The man shrugged and threw the rock out the window, thinking this couldn't be too bad. However, written on his chest, was the phrase, 'Second worst Chinese torture: rock tied to left testicle." As the man raced after the rock to try to catch it, hoping it wouldn't be too painful, he saw written on his arm, 'Third worst Chinese torture: right testicle tied to bedpost.'"

Ron ended the joke and a chorus of laughs and groans of imagined pain sounded. Blaise nodded. "Alright, you have me beat. And I'm sure there are more, but I'd rather not hear them just yet—though I might be calling you up when I need a new joke for my Geraniums."

Everyone laughed again. Realizing dinner was finished, Harry waved his wand and whisked away all the dishes. With another wave of his wand, they were soon washing themselves and putting themselves up. The group moved to the living room, where the armchairs were pulled closer to the couch and the coffee table with the puzzle on it moved. They were soon playing Exploding Snap, with Draco in his favorite armchair, Blaise in another, and Hermione, Ron and Harry situated on the couch.

Blaise, Ron and Draco soon pulled into the lead, leaving Hermione and Harry, who hadn't played the game as long as the other three, trailing in the dusk. There were many shouts of laughter and triumph, coupled with groans of disbelief, and any outsider might never have thought that the five seated in the living room had ever been rivals, despite the few tense moments that arose when one thing or another was said.

Finally, the game was winding down, with Blaise first and Ron and Draco fighting for second, while Harry and Hermione didn't even have enough points to be considered in the game anymore. Draco deemed it a good idea to bring up his master plan (that, and he was momentarily in the lead, and he wanted to keep it that way—bringing up something else that was equally as interesting would serve to possibly end the game and, therefore, leave him in second place).

"So, Harry and I were thinking," he began, "of a master plan," he finished enthusiastically. "Or, rather, Harry gave me the idea and I've been thinking."

"And what would this master plan be, Draco?" Blaise asked lazily.

"We want to pull off a prank." Suddenly, Draco had everyone's attention, the game forgotten. Blaise's eyes were alit, probably already scheming plans, and even Ron was leaning forward in his seat. "And not only would the prank affect the entire school, it would be performed by the least likely people in the school—or, well, not the least likely _people_, per se, but the least likely _team_."

"I get it," said Blaise happily. "No one would suspect a group of Gryffindors and Slytherins uniting to pull off a prank—people might suspect us individually, but it would be such a big prank that it would need more than just our groups separately to pull it off. No one would be able to figure it out!"

"And," continued Hermione, "Not only would the House rivalry relieve us of suspicion, but the fact that we were all supposed to be at our separate houses—sure, we might get together in our separate groups of friends regularly, but for us to unite in a prank that had to be planned before the first day of school would be nearly impossible, since it's unlikely that we five would spend any time together over the summer. Our supposed lack of contact is our greatest ally, when coupled with the house rivalry, let alone the rivalry between Harry and Draco in of itself."

"Exactly," said Draco. "Now, I was thinking of a really good one, and we'll need balloons, paint, a few spells…" The group drifted off into their planning, coming up with more ideas and discarding others. Soon they were acting as if there had never even been an argument in all the years they had known each other.

It was well past midnight before any in the group felt the need to go to bed. Ron and Hermione took up their usual rooms on the second floor, and Blaise was put in the bedroom on the bottom floor.

Harry followed Ron to his room and stopped in his doorway. "Hey," he said before he lost his courage. "I'm sorry about earlier." Harry was looking at the floor, and Ron and turned to look at him.

"No, it's alright mate. I shouldn't have gotten angry, really. Just be careful around him, alright? And don't expect me to be friends with him right away." Ron asked, his voice quiet.

Harry nodded, a little angry that both he and Hermione thought Draco had the potential to be dangerous when it was so obvious that Malfoy was a good, funny, inherently nice (though he hid it well when necessary) person, but he was unwilling to start another argument with his friend and risk making things worse.

"I'll see you in the morning, then. Sleep well, Ron," Harry said, turning to go back to his room. He met Draco in the hallway, who was looking at him, his face an unreadable mask.

"Is everything alright?" Draco asked quietly so as not to be overheard. Harry looked around and waved him into the nearest room, which happened to be Draco's. He erected a quick silencing charm, just to be safe.

"Yes, everything's fine now. Ron and Hermione are still wary of being your friend, but I'm sure they'll come around soon."

"I'll make sure to cut the insults down to the bare minimum, if any at all."

"Thanks. It means a lot to me. I don't want them to be angry because I'm friends with you, but I'm not about to stop because they don't know you."

"That's good. Because, as I've said, I wouldn't let you stop being my friend so easily."

Harry laughed. "I know. But don't let them hear you say that—they might think you have me under some curse or another."

Draco laughed with Harry; then, placing a hand gently on Harry's arm, smiled and looked earnestly at him. "Don't worry, Harry; they're your friends, and they'll understand soon enough. I can tell they're good enough friends to not abandon you for petty jealousy or some other reason."

Harry looked up, smiling. "Thanks, Draco. I'm glad you understand. Even if you are a ferret."

Draco took an indignant step back. "I will have you know that ferrets are very loyal, very friendly creatures."

"Yeah, and they smell, too," said Harry, giggling.

"I do not smell!" exclaimed Draco, aghast. "And if you ever utter such words again, you may seriously regret it!"

"Ooh, I'm so scared, Malfoy," said Harry, rolling his eyes at the same time. "Really, such threats are lost upon me—probably one of the actual disadvantages of becoming my friend, though those disadvantages are few and far in-between, of course."

"There are so many more disadvantages than you think, Harry. Like your obsessive cleaning, for example, and the nasty things that tend to happen to me when I'm around you, like phones and swirling vortexes of temporal doom. Then add in your annoying nature, and I'm not even sure why I hang around you."

Harry and Draco laughed, comfortable in their playful banter. "I'll see you in the morning, Draco. Sleep well."

"You, too," said Draco, waving the silencing charm away and watching as Harry retreated out the door.

Moments later, as Draco was preparing for bed, Blaise knocked quietly on the door and entered the room. "Hey, Dray," he said after putting up another silencing charm. "Was that Harry I just saw leaving your room?"

"Yeah, but don't get any ideas. He was just telling me what Ron said. They had a fight earlier today; I think it was about being friends with me. Harry wasn't too worried, but I could tell he was a bit hurt." Draco was finished putting his clothes away and brushing his hair, so he sat down on the bed next to Blaise.

"I thought it was a little tense at dinner," he said.

"Good job maneuvering the Geraniums conversation to the watering and jokes part. That helped a lot."

"I will not admit to participating in any such manipulation," Blaise said, smiling secretly.

"You might not admit to it, but I know you were maneuvering so I would have an opportunity to talk about the whole eight hours and twenty-three minutes thing. You're too good at it, you know—half the time, I don't even know when you're being manipulative, you're so subtle about it. Just little hints to the back of my mind, little snippets of conversations we have that trigger my memory, and then I bring it up just like you'd planned—you know me all too well."

"I admit to no such manipulation," he said again, though his smile gave away his pride at such a compliment. "So are you sure there was no cute lovely-ness while Harry was here?"

"No," said Draco, shaking his head sadly, yet still smiling. Draco lay down across the bed, head near the edge and legs hanging off. He stretched his arms out above his head, yawning as he did so. "No lovely-ness for you to croon over like you croon over your Geraniums, Blaise, sorry."

Blaise scowled. "Really, you don't have to make fun of me _all_ the time for my Geraniums, Dray."

"Yes I do," he said, smiling. "You know, Harry's called me 'Dray' a couple times now. I'm not quite sure I like it—that's always been your nickname, you know?"

Blaise stretched out beside Draco. "I know. But you must admit, it is a very natural place to shorten your name. The first time I did it, I didn't even shorten it consciously—it just happened, and then it stuck. I can understand why he might do the same."

"But I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it, is the problem. That name's associated with you in my head—not him."

"If you're truly uncomfortable, talk to him about it. Tell him that you need time to adjust, maybe, and that name has so many memories associated with it that you're uncomfortable hearing it from someone else. If you're uncomfortable with him now, this early, nothing else will work."

"Thanks, Blaise."

"I think you're being childish about it, though. It's a nickname, and a good one, too—certainly better than ferret, I'd think."

Draco sighed. "I should have known you'd be honest. That's what I love about you, Blaise—you're not afraid to say when I'm wrong."

Blaise smiled. "That's what I'm here for, of course. That, and to get you two together as soon as humanly possible."

Draco smiled. "That, too. Thank Merlin for that." Draco yawned again, and his eyes began to drift shut.

"You should go to sleep, Dray. It's been a long day, and yesterday wasn't exactly short, either."

"Right." Draco smiled—Blaise was always so motherly, making sure he got enough sleep and enough to eat. It was comforting.

Blaise got up and walked to the door. "Blaise?" Draco called out. Blaise stopped and turned to face Draco, who had rolled over to look at him, propped up on his elbows. "Thanks."

"Any time, Dray. Sleep well." Blaise waved off the silencing charm and left Draco to get his sleep. He was happy that Draco was cautious of Harry using his nickname—though he'd never admit it, it made him happy to know that he still held a special place in Draco's heart.

If asked, Blaise would probably get back together with Draco with very little hesitation. However, he also knew the futility of those hopes. It hadn't worked then, and, unless they both changed drastically, it wouldn't ever work. The most they could be was friends with benefits, and they could only be that when neither was occupied with another, as Draco now was. Blaise wasn't about to argue or fight for something that wasn't going to work, no matter how much he missed Draco's warmth at nights, even after this much time without it. He wasn't sure he'd ever be over his Slytherin friend, but he was willing to sacrifice that for Draco's happiness.

**xxx**

The next morning, Blaise woke early to the smell of toast, which was strong in his room. Being on the bottom floor had its advantages, it appeared. Blaise walked out to find it wasn't as early as he had thought—it was approaching ten thirty, and it appeared both Harry and Hermione had been up for a while now, talking and making breakfast.

"Good morning, Blaise," said Hermione, obviously trying to become friends with the Slytherin, if only for Harry's sake.

"Good morning. I assume the other two are still asleep?"

"Knowing Ron, he won't be up for at least another hour, and he won't be awake for another hour afterwards—he only rises to fill his belly."

"And knowing Draco, he won't be up until he's woken up."

Blaise nodded his agreement—Draco had the nasty habit of sleeping until forced to wake or too hungry to remain asleep any longer, and the latter didn't happen often, though Blaise could tell that Draco was eating a considerably larger amount of food since he began staying with Harry, for which Blaise was grateful. He had tried for months to get Draco to eat a decent amount of food every year, but it had never been terribly effective—if Harry could accomplish both that and getting Draco to stop cutting himself, Blaise was doubly grateful for their blooming relationship. It was certainly something he had never been able to accomplish himself, despite all his efforts and all the love that had been between them.

"In that case, I'll go wake him," Blaise said. "I'll return in a little while." Blaise left, heading up the stairs to Draco's room.

Hermione turned to Harry. "I guess that means I should go wake Ron," she said. "He wouldn't like it if Draco arrived before him and ate all the food."

"I doubt that would happen, but if you like that excuse, you can go get your morning kiss. Don't worry—I'm not offended."

Hermione blushed and headed towards Ron's room. Harry happily grilled the toast, laying out jam and butter on the table when he had an opportunity.

Moments later, Ron and Hermione had joined him, Ron looking more awake than usual (which wasn't saying much) and very happy with his morning snog. Harry resolutely refused to think of anything else they might have been doing to cause Hermione's strong blush. Blaise and Draco were taking a little longer in coming down, and Harry absently wondered if they were getting in their 'occasional snog' and then shoved the feeling of jealousy that surged up back where it belonged—in other words, where he would resolutely avoid thinking about it for as long as he possibly could.

Just as Harry was getting control of his feelings again, Blaise and Draco wandered in, Draco looking just as asleep as he did every morning. Certainly if they had had a snog, Draco would look a little more awake than usual. Harry smiled, though he once again ignored the feelings that were rising inside of him, deciding that they were not worth paying attention to.

"Good—breakfast is almost ready."

Draco mumbled something that Harry assumed had to do with him being too cheerful, which Harry ignored with his usual happy mood, just as he did every morning.

Harry happily piled foods on plates and handed them out, piling a little extra on Draco's plate with a look that dared him not to finish all of it. Draco sighed and began eating resignedly, drawing a chuckle out of Blaise and confused looks out of Ron and Hermione. Neither Harry nor Blaise thought it prudent to enlighten them as to Draco's poor eating habits, so the two remained in the dark.

"How did everyone sleep?" asked Harry as he sat down with his own plate, next to Hermione and across from Draco.

"Very good," answered Hermione. Blaise nodded his content over a mouthful of toast, and both Ron and Draco answered with tired grunts.

"I'm glad to hear everyone slept well," he said, being extra cheerful just to annoy Draco.

Of course, his tactics worked marvelously—Draco rolled his eyes and, sighing, said, "Really, Potter. We just got up. Try to tone down the perkiness for once."

Blaise laughed. "Actually, it's quite refreshing to be around someone cheerful in the mornings." Turning to Harry, he said, "No one in Slytherin is happy in the mornings—and if I try to be happy, no one speaks to me all day and I sometimes I get nasty surprises in my bed at night, depending on just how happy and annoyingly cheerful I was. They tend towards the dark-gloomy-depressiveness in the morning, and they kill the mood."

Harry laughed. "I'm glad I've found someone who likes to be happy in the mornings, too. Hermione tends to be okay, but if you get Ron before 11 o clock—well, being awake is not one of his strong suits." Ron, despite the morning jolt he had received from Hermione, was still not exactly awake—far from it, actually.

Blaise and Harry, deciding this was too good an opportunity to pass up, chatted in exaggeratedly loud and happy voices all morning. By the end of it, Draco looked murderous and Ron just looked more tired than usual.

Finally, the group moved as a whole to the living room. Hermione, who was awake and chipper, finding it amusing to contribute a little to the exaggeratedly cheerful atmosphere, began a game of Wizard's chess with Blaise. Harry pulled out the puzzle and worked absent-mindedly on it, not realizing that he was paying more attention to Draco, who was sitting in his favorite chair while observing the game of chess, than he was paying to the puzzle. When he finally did notice, he quickly made his excuses and retreated to the kitchen.

As soon as he retreated, Blaise turned and gave Draco a subtle yet pointed look. Draco repressed a sigh and followed Harry, leaving Hermione and Blaise to their game with Ron watching groggily from his place next to Hermione.

Harry was moving busily from refrigerator to counter, setting out glasses and putting water in each of them, then placing them on a tray to be carried out to the living room.

"Do you need any help?" asked Draco, not quite sure why Blaise had wanted him to come in here. Really, it would help if he knew what Blaise was thinking—all he could read into the look was 'Follow! Now! Don't argue!'

Harry startled, causing all the glasses to drop to the ground and shatter, spilling water all over the floor.

Harry, after he had taken a quick moment to calm down, shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't see you coming," he said, kneeling to pick up the shards of glass.

"Really, Harry, sometimes it's obvious you grew up in a muggle home," said Draco, waving his wand and whisking all the pieces of glass into the garbage, including the pieces that Harry would have missed. The glasses were too shattered to bother fixing—it would have taken too much concentration, with all the pieces there were sure to be, and a lapse in concentration would mean a leaky glass. With another wave, all the water was cleaned up.

"Thanks," Harry said, giving him a warm smile. "I just don't think of it, most of the time. Not having been around it all my life makes cleaning by hand more of a habit than cleaning with magic." Harry began taking down more glasses, though Draco could tell he was still tense about something. The question was, what?

"It's alright. That's why you have me around, anyways." Draco started filling the glasses with ice and water. He brushed into Harry by accident, who blushed and quickly pulled away.

Suddenly, Draco realized what, exactly, and caused Harry to make his quick retreat—he had done it often before getting together with Blaise. He would find himself drifting off, staring at Blaise absently and not realizing it until he was shaken out of his stupor. He would always retreat as soon as humanly possible, not wanting to admit his feelings for his peer.

Draco smiled; suddenly, filling glasses up with water was one of the most enjoyable tasks there was. "Did you sleep well?" he asked cheerfully as Harry got out a platter. "You asked all of us, but you didn't answer yourself."

"Yes, I did," said Harry, still not willing to meet Draco's eyes and a blush creeping up his cheeks. Draco grinned wickedly and pretended to bump into Harry again, this time hesitating almost imperceptibly before pulling away. Sure, it could be considered cruelty—but it also might help Harry come to terms with his feelings more readily and quickly.

Harry blushed and ducked away, placing the glasses hurriedly on the tray. "Careful," said Draco, using one of his own hands to steady Harry's before he dropped another glass. "You don't want to break any more." Harry blushed and, moving his hand with obvious caution, slowly and steadily, he placed the rest of glasses on the tray.

Draco followed him out to the living room and, taking a glass for himself and finally fully awake, watched the chess game with feigned interest. In reality, he was observing Harry observe him. Being a Slytherin, Draco had mastered the art of observing without being observed—it seemed Harry needed quite a bit of practice.

Draco happily drank his water to the end. Finishing it, he refilled it with a wave of his wand. Looking up and catching Harry's eye, he winked; it hadn't been a conscious decision—more like an impulse that he had followed through without thinking about it first. Harry blushed even stronger and looked down at his puzzle. Looking back up a moment later, he found Draco to still be staring intently at him. Draco walked slowly over to the corner the puzzle had been placed in so that it would be out of the way and, sitting on the floor with Harry, began to help slowly fill in the pieces. They said nothing, but Draco knew what Harry was thinking about, and he was dancing for joy inside.

The events that passed between Harry and Draco passed unobserved to all but Blaise, who was keeping an eye out for it. All Ron and Hermione noticed, for they were oblivious to the fact that there might even be something happening, was that Draco had left to work on the puzzle. Blaise, however, knew better—he knew that look, which looked strangely reminiscent of the look Draco had worn while still discovering his feelings for his fellow Slytherin somewhere around six months ago.

Blaise smiled contently and, focusing more on the game so as to give Draco and Harry an illusion of privacy in the corner and so as not to draw Ron and Hermione's attention to it, knew that things were going well. Still, Hermione was a smart person—if she observed too much, she would work things out, and that could ruin it all. And Ron, though he tended to be thick, sometimes stumbled upon the right information, and Blaise couldn't have that.

Blaise smiled larger as he plotted his next move—both in chess and to get Harry and Draco alone so that their relationship could blossom.

**xxx**

**A/N:** Don't you love conspiratorial-Blaise? I do. He's my favorite to write, actually, but I'm sure none of you care about that. Johnny begs for reviews with puppy-dog eyes that are completely irresistible.

**A/N2:** I recently(ish) received a review and a couple other comments asking me—**Who is Johnny?** So hurt by this comment, Johnny demands I explain. Johnny is, in actuality, a three-inch Johnny Depp. Sarcastic and witty, he is held under a contract to be my muse (and tries to find the loop hole every day). Though he says he does not love slash in any way, I believe that, deep down, it is his one true passion—and _my_ Johnny's views do not, in any way, reflect those of the real Johnny Depp. They just have an uncanny physical resemblance and taste for witty sarcasm. **Go read "Meetings" (another story by yours truly) if you would like to learn more about Johnny and his personality—I limited his interaction in this story, and he dislikes it greatly.**


	21. The Attic

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 21: The Attic**

**Important A/N:** I'm so, so sorry it's late. Really, I am. I lost the floppy disk, and my Brit-picker just responded, and at one point, I had the bad version up on the internet, but now the good version's up and you can all be happy…and, well, it's been an interesting week. Forgive my tardiness, and take the extraordinary length and good events as compensation. I expect a lot of reviews.

**Important A/N2:** If you would like to ask a question of me/get a response, make a comment or inquiry, or anything of that sort, check out the **Food for Thought** forum. I will also keep all of you updated on the status of the story—when it will be updated, etc.

**xxx**

Blaise won the game, but only just barely. If he hadn't resumed concentration when Draco had joined Harry in the corner, he most certainly would have lost. Hermione was a refreshing challenge—he already knew all of Draco's favorite moves and his complete strategy, including all back up and suicide plans. He was entirely too predictable.

Ron, finally awake after becoming interested in the final stretches of the game, offered to play a game with Blaise. At first, Blaise was skeptical (Ron, after all, did seem quite thick at times), but when they started playing, he realized that Ron's skill as a chess player was not related in any manner to his grades or his skill (or lack thereof) at observation. Luckily, Hermione paid full attention to the game so she could pick up hints on how to beat Blaise the next time she played (not that it would help—Blaise frequently changed his strategies, knowing that using only one consistently would lose him a game eventually, and that hadn't happened in quite a long while), and her concentration on the game diverted her attention from the growing relationship in the corner.

The silence had passed in the corner, and Harry and Draco were chatting comfortably about this and that. They discussed what puzzles they would buy at next opportunity. Harry suggested that he would bring a few puzzles to Hogwarts with him. They could set them up in an unused room, and, though he had completed all of them before, he was happy to work on them again. Draco happily agreed and resolved to buy a new puzzle as soon as he could.

Draco, remembering his trouble with the Charms homework and figuring it was a safe subject to talk about if anyone overheard—that, and it wouldn't come anywhere near a topic which might make Harry blush, which Draco deemed important when they were around other people.

"Did you understand that Charms homework?" he asked as he searched futilely for another puzzle piece. He gave up on it and picked up another, scowling as Harry picked up the piece Draco had discarded and placed it where it belonged on the first try.

"I had to get Hermione to explain it at first, but I got it eventually. Do you need help?" he asked absently, focusing more on the puzzle and their feet, which kept seeming to touch whenever he moved his own. If he didn't know better, he would suspect that Draco was moving his feet so they would constantly be touching his own, but he wasn't willing to dwell upon that thought.

"A little," Draco admitted. "I thought I understood the theory, but I think I'm missing something in the essay, because I can't seem to get the spell right every time I do it.

"Did you remember to make a loop with your wand at the beginning and end of the spell? That's what I kept forgetting to do."

"You have to make the loop at the end, too? That's news to me. Thanks." Draco wanted to curse—that topic of conversation hadn't lasted nearly as long as he had wanted it to. Luckily, Harry unwittingly saved him.

"Could you explain a bit of the Potions homework to me later? Hermione tried explaining it to me, but she always gets off on tangents about the plants and stuff—I end up losing the train of thought, and then I never understand."

"Of course. We can go look at it now, if you want."

Harry looked up at the group of people, who all appeared to be completely focused on the chess game that was unfolding, which appeared to be evenly matched between Blaise and Ron. Draco was impressed—both Ron and Hermione were doing quite well against his friend, who had a reputation around the dorm of being unbeatable. It had been a long time since Draco had seen Blaise struggle this much.

"Sure, we can get it out of the way before other things come up and I forget again." Draco nodded and stood up to follow Harry, who mentioned that they would be back soon, explaining he just had a question on some Potions. He was dismissed with an uninterested wave of the hand by Hermione, and he was not even acknowledged by Ron, who was focused on the game. Blaise, however, watched carefully—gleefully—as the two walked up the stairs to Harry's room. Oh, how he loved romances.

"It's been a while since I've seen Ron that challenged," said Harry absently as they traveled up the stairs. "Hermione's good, but she's only beat him twice—no, three times, now."

"Blaise is virtually unbeatable, so I'm pretty impressed. Who would have known there would be a good chess player behind Weasley's unobservant and less-intelligent exterior?"

"Ron is many things, but certainly not a poor chess player—he's obsessive about it. Hermione always complains that if he put as much effort into his school work as he does chess and Quidditch, he would be an A-student, but he never really listens."

Harry was rummaging in his trunk and, finally, he triumphantly drew out his Potions scroll. Draco skimmed over a few passages, impressed—Harry had worked hard on this.

"This is more than I've written, Harry, and it all seems to be correct," said Draco as he finished the scroll. "There were a couple places that you were vague, but it was otherwise very good."

"That's what you say—watch, and I'll get a poor grade from Snape. I have to work three times as hard in that class to get half the grade you do."

"That's just because Severus has always been hard on students—you'd probably be surprised; I've gotten a few low grades, too."

"Key phrase: a few. I bet I've gotten fewer good grades than you've gotten low ones by at least half."

Draco shrugged. "I'll talk to him, if you want. He's a bully, sometimes, I admit. But this is good work—even he knows that. Now, what don't you understand?"

"Why doesn't the lillywart react with the Unicorn Hair to cause an explosion? It does in just about every other potion out there, and I can't figure out why it wouldn't do so here."

Draco rolled the parchment back up, careful not to wrinkle it. "The crabgrass you add between the lillywart neutralizes the action. Still, if you put the crabgrass in at any other time, it will make a pretty wicked explosion."

"That's good to know—I wouldn't be surprised if that's on a quiz he'd be sure to give us the first day back." Harry sat on the bed, obviously not willing to leave the room quite yet. Draco remained standing, knowing that if he sat on the bed, he would probably be too close for Harry's comfort at the moment. He had to be careful—he could tease Harry and do little things, but taking things too far would result in a catastrophe he did not want to happen.

"As NEWT students, he told me we should expect a short quiz at least twice a week, first days back after breaks not excluded, three parchments a week, and a major test every two weeks. He will do less teaching in the class and expect us to learn more of the material on our own and come to class prepared with questions and ready to work on the potion he has assigned."

"Well, I hadn't known it would be that much work, but I figured that it would be a lot harder than before."

"Don't worry—between Hermione, Blaise and me, you should be near the top of the class. Anyways, he tends to be much fairer in the NEWT level classes—he actually enforces that there will be no house rivalries at any time, or face possible expulsion from the class. Still, he expects more, too: no pranking, no explosions, and no drifting off in class. Most of the potions we'll be making are too dangerous if one person drifts and forgets to add something or stir the right way—and he won't tolerate mistakes."

"I'm not surprised, really. He should expect more, after all—we're older, and our exams say that we're supposedly intelligent enough for the class."

"Exactly his train of thought. See, he's not such a snarky bastard after all," said Draco happily.

"No, I suppose not." Harry stood up, stretching as he did so. "I guess we should head back down before they think one of us has killed the other."

Draco handed the scroll back to Harry, allowing their hands to brush lightly. He tried to catch Harry's gaze, but the Gryffindor's eyes were focused resolutely on the ground. Really, where was Gryffindor courage when you wanted it?

"Right. Blaise would probably hold them back, though, convincing them we weren't about to kill each other—he's good about that, really."

"It's nice to have him here to mitigate the week. Anyways, Ron and Hermione seem to be growing attached to him—more quickly than they're growing to like you, at least. I think Ron will adopt him as his new Chess partner, at this rate—he looked so enthralled in that game I wasn't sure he would even notice if Hermione had left, and he's pretty focused on her."

"Blaise seems to like them, too—they make him laugh, in a good way, and he loves to laugh. He was being truthful when he said he hates being at his house because it's boring—his parents travel a lot, so he's alone most of the time, discounting the house elves and Lucilia, and he really hates being alone."

"I can see that," said Harry as they entered the living room. Ron and Blaise were still engaged in the game, with Hermione watching on intently. In the time they had been gone, no advantage had developed on either Ron or Blaise's side, and Blaise only spared a momentary glance up to recognize that Harry and Draco had returned before giving his full attention back to the game.

"Who's winning?" Harry asked, looking at the chess board but deciphering nothing from the position of the pieces. His question, however, only elicited a glare from Ron, who was concentrating on where to make his next move.

"I don't think they want to be disturbed," Harry whispered loudly to Draco, not even trying to hide his comment.

"What gave you that impression?" asked Draco sarcastically. "Come on, let's work on the puzzle—it seems to be a stalemate so far, though Ron does have one more pawn than Blaise."

"It's a pawn. How much of a difference can it make?" asked Harry, not understanding that, once a person reached a higher level of playing chess, every piece mattered—especially the pawns.

"You have no idea how much it would mean to Blaise. He's probably still kicking himself over losing that single pawn. Most of the games he won in Slytherin were without losses, and if you happened to take a pawn away from him, he'd usually play you again—only that time, he wouldn't lose a single piece, and he'd wait to beat you until he had taken every single one of yours."

"Scary," commented Harry, picking up a piece and still knowing he probably wouldn't get it in. He was surprised when it fit the third place he tried it, and he smiled happily. He tapped the piece twice on the top, mimicking the gesture Harry made every time he placed a piece in and drawing a smile at the same time.

"Oh, incredibly so. It seems your friend and mine will be playing many games in the future—I wouldn't be surprised if Blaise hunts him down and forces him to play multiple games of chess, just to satisfy his own craving for a good game."

"I say good luck to the both of them." Harry and Draco both chuckled, though none of those watching the chess game unfold even looked in their direction.

The room settled into a comfortable silence as each separate group of people concentrated on the task at hand. Finally, Harry looked at his watch and, seeing it was past time for lunch, got up to organize a small snack, once again planning on a large dinner to compensate. Moments later, he brought out five sandwiches and a tray of fruit. He placed a sandwich in front of each person, though it was quickly ignored by those who were playing chess (Hermione's concentration on the game was as if she was playing it as well, so absorbed in the moves did she appear).

Draco munched contently on his own sandwich, and, though he tried to ignore the fruit, ended up eating a few grapes and an apple as well after Harry hinted at it strongly (and nearly forced it down his throat).

Harry and Draco were working contently on the puzzle, happy to ignore the chess game from where they were, when they heard a groan of frustration come from the direction of the game. Looking up, Draco and Harry saw Blaise with his head in his hands and Ron examining the board carefully, with Hermione sitting back smugly in her chair.

"Who won?" asked Draco, curious to know if Blaise had finally been beaten.

"Neither of them," answered Hermione cheerfully. "It's a stalemate."

At that, Draco began laughing hysterically—oh, this was good. He knew that Blaise would prefer to lose than have a stalemate, if it came down to a choice between the two—it was a matter of pride that he could either get himself out of a situation, defeat his opponent, or at least avoid not having anything left to do—a stalemate was the ultimate inability to decide one's own fate. This could be used as ammunition for years to come—and next time, if Weasley beat Blaise, oh the fun that would ensue.

"Marvelous job, Weasley!" said Draco enthusiastically. "No one's even come close to even pretending to hold his own against Blaise in years; most get beaten within twenty minutes, and that's if he's having an off day. You, too, Granger—marvelous job."

Harry made it a mental note to talk to Draco about calling Ron and Hermione by their given names, or at least just referring directly to them so he didn't have to use last names. Harry figured that if he could accomplish that, half the battle would be won in mending ways with Ron and Hermione. After all, it had worked quite effectively for Blaise, for Ron and Hermione treated him just as they would anyone else in Gryffindor house.

Blaise and Ron began a discussion of the game and the strategies involved, not caring that they might be revealing a hint to beat each other—both changed their strategies so often that it wouldn't matter to share a few careful tips.

While Ron and Blaise chatted, the other three began talking about the upcoming prank and more of the supplies that would be needed. The two chess players were soon drawn into the conversation, interested in the impending hilarity that the school would have to endure.

"We need to get to a mall or some other supply store, Harry," said Hermione, ignoring that the other three in the room had little idea of what they were referring to. Little did she know that Draco not only knew what she was talking about, but knew what Harry would say next.

"There's a mall nearby, actually. You can reach it in ten minutes in a cab, and it's easy to catch another cab back." Draco was only glad that Hermione didn't ask how Harry knew this, just assuming that he might have been there at some indefinite moment in the past.

"That's wonderful! We can go a couple days before we have to leave—that way, we could go tomorrow, make sure we have everything we need, and return if we think of something else we need."

"We're going to get those balloons, aren't we?" asked Ron, excited. He had never seen a muggle balloon, though there were some wizard imitations that filled on its own and popped loudly whenever near another person—a marvelous tool for scaring an unsuspecting friend, but not necessary for this prank.

"Of course, Ron. We've already discussed that. So it's decided, then—we'll go tomorrow."

"I'll come," Ron volunteered immediately. "Dad would love to hear a story about a muggle shopping center. Will you take me and him back there some day, 'Mione?"

Hermione, smiling sweetly at Ron, nodded her agreement. "Now, Harry and Draco can't leave the house due to their status in the wizarding world."

"Come on," said Draco, wanting to get out of the house more than he could express. "It's a muggle shopping center—no one wizarding will be there, and no one would suspect us."

"No. You'd be surprised how many muggles go to a muggle shopping center, and there could be any number of muggle-born wizards among them. I still go to the shopping center with my friends, and I'm certain I would be able to pick out someone like you, despite the crowds in a mall. You're both staying."

"I'd like to go," said Blaise, a sparkle in his eyes. "I've never really been in the muggle world—well, no more than King's Cross and a couple other places, but those only for a few moments; not enough to experience the culture, that's for sure."

"It's really no different from Diagon Alley," said Hermione. "Except you'd have to take away all the magical items, all the wizards, witches and—"

"So what you're saying is that it's not like Diagon Alley at all, right?" asked Draco, smiling a little. Having been there, he knew what Hermione was trying to get at, but it was still fun to catch her. It didn't exactly happen often.

Hermione blushed. "No, not in that manner—but add all the kids, the adults, all the new toys, the atmosphere—and that's what a shopping center is."

"Well, it's decided, then," said Ron happily. "Blaise, Hermione and myself will go to the mall in a—what'd you call it, mate—a tacky, while Malfoy and Harry stay here and—well, be bored."

Draco, suddenly realizing why Blaise had jumped to go to the mall—Blaise, who normally couldn't care less about the muggle world, was just scheming to get him alone time with Harry. Oh, the wonders and joys of manipulation! Draco, suddenly happy with the outcome of this conversation, readily agreed—though he hid his excitement, of course. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to pick us up a new puzzle, alright? We'll need one before school's back."

"And make sure it's a difficult one," said Harry. "At least a thousand pieces, jigsaw, and preferably a really, really busy one with lots of similar colors. Hermione, you should be able to figure out difficulty. If you have problems, just ask the shopkeeper."

Busted, Draco thought, virtually seeing the wheels in Hermione's mind turning. "When'd you go to the shopping center to get puzzles, Harry?"

Harry, glancing to Draco for help he would not receive, quickly thought up the best answer he could. "When I first got here, Dumbledore accompanied me to pick up a couple puzzles to occupy me. I never told you guys—sorry, but I didn't think it was that important. We just took them out the other day when we got bored."

Maybe Harry _did_ deserve to be in Slytherin, Draco thought as Hermione fully bought the lie. Granted, it was a good one—believable and possible, if a bit improbable that Harry wouldn't have mentioned it or done the puzzles earlier in the summer. Draco could tell that Blaise suspected the truth—he'd probably be questioned about that later—but it only mattered that Ron and Hermione were fooled.

"It's all set, then," said Harry. "You guys pick up the items we need at a couple puzzles—get more than one, please—and we'll stay here and be bored. Maybe we can figure out a way to pull it off—we still need to think of a way to hide that much many things."

Satisfied, Ron and Blaise started a new game of chess (each determined to best the other) while Hermione watched, Harry prepared dinner, and Draco watched Harry with all the discreetness he could muster (which, frankly, wasn't much).

**xxx**

Later that night, while Draco was getting ready for bed, daydreaming ways he would convince Harry of kissing him again, Blaise silently entered the room. All the others had gone to bed, and Blaise had just snuck up after their doors were closed and lights off, but it still paid off to be cautious.

"How was your day?" Blaise asked. "I didn't get to talk to you much."

"Yeah," said Draco, grinning, "you were too busy getting whipped by Weasley."

Blaise scowled. "First off, it was another stalemate—there was no 'whipping,' as you so facetiously call it, done by either of us. Second, you might want to try not calling him 'Weasley.' I suspect he dislikes the nicknames you give him the most, or possibly the frequent insults, and if you stop either—or, if you're really trying hard, both—then you may actually bridge the gap you must cross to at least become friendly acquaintances."

"In other words, be polite. I'll have you know that I have not insulted him half as much as I have desired."

"I know. That doesn't change the fact that you insulted both the clothes he wears and the way he walks today. I'll give you Hermione, though—you haven't called her a 'mudblood' once since I've gotten here, and you certainly succeed in insulting her less."

"She's easier not to insult—despite her mixed blood, she's polite when she wants to do something—right now, mending the gap between us is to please Harry—and she can be a tolerable person. Weasley, on the other hand—fine, Ron—is much easier to torment. Not only is there more to make fun of, but it's easy to get a rise out of him, and he's so interesting when he's angry."

"Still, you should refrain from it if you ever wish to win Harry over. Speaking of which—"

"I know, I know. You want to know about earlier."

"Yes, clarification on why Harry was lying about traveling to the shopping center with the Headmaster would be nice."

"We were cooped up—there was nothing to do, including homework. We could eat, sleep or argue—or, heaven forbid, have a non-argumentative conversation. So we went to the shopping center one day. I convinced him, and we updated his wardrobe—you should have seen it before. I basically threw away all his flannel and overalls. They were absolutely horrendous."

"I can imagine," said Blaise dryly. "Have I ever said that you are _so_ gay? As in, the stereo-typical, follow all fashion trends, wave the hand and talk the talk, gay?"

"You say so every time I force you to update your wardrobe, my dear friend. Aren't you due for another checkup? The shirt you're wearing now isn't too bad, but that one you were wearing in Diagon Alley the other day was out of style almost a year ago."

"And you only prove my point," said Blaise, smirking.

"Who said I was trying to disprove it?" asked Draco sweetly.

"So I take it your shopping center trip was where you got the puzzles and realized that you both could get along with each other for more than a few hours at a time? And my guess is that you probably checked him out while making him try on outfit after outfit, for I know from personal experience that you don't stop until you find the right thing."

"Correct on all counts, my dear Blaise. You know me all too well."

"It's my job," said Blaise, smiling. "So, what's your plan for tomorrow?"

"I'm not quite sure yet. I know he's nervous, but he's also responding fairly well. And I know he's thinking about it—I catch him looking at me enough."

"Don't do what I did—he's not the 'sweep me off my feet before I know it' type."

"You're right—I highly doubt he'd like the sudden kiss forced down his throat that you gave me. Though it was quite effective for you, it might just scare him off. I don't want that."

"Try getting him in a secluded spot—not in the living room or the kitchen, but maybe his room."

"Or the attic—that's nice and secluded, and it's very relaxing and private. With a few touches, it could be very romantic. There's a couch, and it reminds him of his godfather."

"Perfect—sentimental and everything. Maybe you could do something special for him—though don't cook. I've seen you try to make something, and it wasn't pretty."

"I could get take out, I guess, though I don't know how. He mentioned something about there being a delivery food service."

"I don't really think that would work, Dray. Not only have you been absolutely terrified and humiliated by the telephone, but you wouldn't know what to order."

"I could ask him to make something that wasn't messy, a finger-food or something. Sandwiches would be nice, I suppose."

"That'll be good. Have some music playing on that phonograph, if you can—and make sure you change out the music to always have it playing, because silence would be bad. You two tend to get those awkward silences—very bad. You need to work on that."

"I'm not like you, Blaise, able to turn any awkward silence into the most fun conversation had in the last two years. It comes naturally to you, and it's harder than you'd think for we who are not talented in the skill of talking about nothing."

"That's why you need to work on it, Dray. Listen—don't defend yourself for any reason."

"You really are strange, Blaise."

"Good luck tomorrow. If you tone down the awkward silences and keep up the conversation, the music, and the good food, you should be fine. Make sure you wear that green button-up—I always did think you looked best in that."

"Thanks," said Draco warmly. They stood in comfortable silence for a few moments (for Blaise knew how to control the silence to be comfortable or awkward, either way), enjoying each other's presence. On an impulse, he leaned up to Blaise, who was a few inches taller, and gave him a quick peck on the lips that quickly turned into a long, drawn out kiss in which each tried to remember what they once had, tried to savor the moment they had now. Finally, Blaise pulled away, thinking of what they were talking about and feeling guilty, though there was no concrete reason why he should feel so. "I miss you, Blaise," Draco said quietly, his face still close to his friends. "Thank you so much."

Blaise, eyes closed, inhaled deeply, for once not in control of the situation. Every nerve in his body stood on end, telling him to take Draco right then and there, but he held back. "I know, Dray. I'll always love you, and I'll always do things like this for you."

Draco wrapped his arms around his once-lover's neck, pulling him in a close embrace. Blaise returned the gesture, holding him tight, wishing he never had to let go. He loved Draco, and for that reason, he would help his friend. Still, there were times he wished with all his might that there weren't those few unchangeable differences, those few irreparable arguments that stood in the way of their relationship. But that was what was so great about Draco and Harry—there were no differences or arguments that needed to be mended. They'd already argued as much as necessary—they knew what annoyed the other, what didn't, and everything in between. It actually had the potential to work. If there were any left-over arguments, they had yet to be discovered, and there was still time to fix them. For him and Draco, it had been too late—oh, but how he wished it hadn't been.

Blaise, pushing his depressing thoughts away, was the first to pull back and give a warm (if slightly forced) smile. "Now get your rest, lover-boy. You have a lot of seducing to do tomorrow. We'll be gone before lunch, so you can start shortly after."

Draco, who was less skilled at hiding his emotions when alone with his dear friend, his once lover, quickly wiped his eyes dry of any hints of tears. "Right. Thanks, again. I'll—I'll see you in the morning." Draco gave one last tight, desperate hug to his friend, who quickly turned and walked out the door.

Maybe this would be harder than he had thought, Draco mused as he tried to drift to sleep. He was up late in the night thinking of his newfound hesitancy. The old saying was true—you didn't know what you would miss until it was gone.

**xxx**

When Draco entered the kitchen late the next morning, tired from his inability to sleep and his habit of never waking, all his doubts disappeared. Yes, when alone and unable to find the optimism that his relationship would work out with Harry, it was hard not to regret the end of everything between himself and his once-lover. But when he was around Harry, everything changed. He could feel the optimism, sense the impending achievement of his goal, was nearly within his grasp. Though it was hard not to remember the feelings he had for Blaise, it was harder to keep them in mind when around the intoxicating presence of his newfound interest. Maybe, over time, once they were together (for Draco was determined that he and Harry would be together), his feelings for Blaise would die—or at least lessen. Or maybe they would never go away, leaving him always wondering if he would be happier with the Boy-Who-Lived or his more normal, every-day friend.

Sometimes, Draco believed it was just that—the normality—which caused their relationship to fail. Blaise was unique in his own way (his ability to carry on a conversation, no matter who he was talking to, was especially useful), but he was never—well, he was never Harry. There was a sense of newness about Harry—a sense that life would always be interesting and different, where as, with Blaise, there was a sense of never-changing comfort, the consistency which was always a fallback.

Draco shook his head and focused on the beauty in front of him, who was currently making pancakes.

"It's nice to have a decent group of people to cook for," said Harry absently. "I always seemed to waste food before, but with everyone else here, everything gets eaten and no effort feels like a waste."

Draco nodded absently, watching as Harry flipped a pancake expertly into the air. "I was wondering—would you make some sandwiches for lunch?" he asked, hoping he wasn't being obvious. Sure, there was no reason Harry should suspect anything, but he didn't want to take any chances. "I've been craving them a bit lately."

Harry looked over at Draco and smiled. "Sure," he said. "I'd be glad to. Anything else you'd like?"

Draco shook his head. "Whatever you think would go best with them. Just—nothing messy, okay?"

Harry gave him a strange look, and Draco thought he was caught, but the dark-haired boy merely shrugged and nodded his consent. "Right, then. Chips it is."

Draco smiled—everything seemed to be going according to plan. So far, at least.

**xxx**

Hermione, Ron and Blaise left with few problems—a few words of caution ("Hermione, make sure you don't let Ron look too obvious." "I'm not an idiot, Harry. Ron, if you touch one thing without my approval first, there will be no kissing—or anything else—for a month.") and a wink from Blaise, and they were gone, leaving Draco to his schemes.

It was close to lunchtime, so Harry began preparing the sandwiches. While he was busy cooking, Draco stole away to the attic to get everything ready. He listened to a selection of records, he volume low, to pick out some that would be nice to listen to—songs that were romantic, not depressing, but not obviously so. Muttering a quick cleaning charm—one of the few his mother had forced him to master, for better or for worse—any traces of dust were gone, though only on the surface—he wasn't as good as some were, who could even get to the dust between the corners and in the cracks of things. Noticing that it was a little cloudy outside (it had rained earlier in the morning and was threatening to rain again), Draco lit a few lamps to brighten the room; a dim room, no matter how romantic, could prove to make Harry uncomfortable in some way.

Having satisfied his romantic craving, Draco returned to the kitchen to watch Harry make the final preparations. Altogether, the setup had only taken him a few moments (he had planned it all out in his head the night before while he couldn't sleep, trying to distract himself from the depressing thoughts tearing him between Blaise and Harry).

When he arrived in the kitchen, he found two sandwiches finished, though the chips had a little ways to go. They were homemade, cut by hand earlier that morning from a few potatoes. Harry was now shaking the first half in a paper bag to take away some of the grease while the second half cooked merrily in the fryer. Draco could smell the seasonings that must have been in the bag, adding flavor to the fries, from where he was sitting silently at the counter. He put the ones previously in the bag in the fryer for a few moments more, placing the ones already in the fryer (which had already been shaken) on some paper napkins to drain as much grease as possible. Harry pulled two drinks out of the refrigerator and placed them next to two plates, pulling out cloth napkins as well. He then placed the sandwiches and a hefty portion of the chips on the two plates.

"Good," said Draco, standing up just as Harry placed a plate of food in front of him. "If you carry the plates, I can get the drinks and the napkins."

"What?" asked Harry, not quite catching on.

"I thought we might eat in the attic," Draco said, avoiding looking too happy as all his machinations fell into place. "It's nice up there, and I'm tired of eating in this kitchen."

Harry shrugged. "If something spills, you're cleaning it up without magic. That's all I have to say."

Draco shrugged. They had learned anti-stick spells last year in charms, so he would just place one before they started eating. That way, any and all messes would be easily handled. "Let's go, then. I already have everything set up."

They started walking up the stairs, Harry following close behind Draco. "Set up? What's there to set up?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Searching quickly for an excuse, Draco said, "Think of this as a thank-you for taking me in over the summer."

"But I'm the one who made lunch—how can it be a thank-you?"

Draco laughed, not daring to look back at Harry right now for fear he would jump the boy immediately, causing all the food and drink to go everywhere. "Another part of your thank-you, believe you me. My cooking skills are not exactly—proficient. The toaster should be an adequate example."

"Good point," said Harry. "Thanks for letting me cook, then. And thank you for the thank-you."

"No need to thank," said Draco merrily—if all went to plan, Harry wouldn't exactly need words to thank him.

Harry and Draco settled comfortably on the couch, which was still too small for two people to sit without touching—just as Draco had planned. The music played lightly in the background, but Draco didn't hear it—he just concentrated on their thighs brushing, sending a shoot of warmth up his leg as he ate the sandwich, not really paying attention to what he was doing.

Harry turned to him, a smile in his eyes. "Draco—you have a little something—right here," he said, gesturing to his cheek.

Draco reached a hand up to wipe away what was probably ketchup, but nothing came off. He kept trying, but he just couldn't seem to find the spot. Harry, laughing a little as Draco kept missing the ketchup, picked up his napkin. "Here," he said, "let me." Reaching up, Harry gently wiped the offending condiment off Draco's face, for which he was grateful. Their skin touched briefly, sending an electric shock up Draco's body—if he hadn't known better, that had been intentional, he thought. And he wouldn't even have been surprised if there had been nothing there.

Draco smiled. "Always to the rescue, Harry. Thanks."

Harry blushed a little, smiling timidly. "You're welcome, Draco."

In the background, the record stopped, having run out of things to play. Draco absently waved his wand, causing a new song to come on—he had worked out how to change the records without getting up—but all his focus was on Harry.

He slowly continued eating his sandwich, watching as Harry did the same. Harry ate with a certain deliberateness, chewing each bite methodically before moving onto the next. If Draco didn't know better, he would think Harry was eating so slowly so as to torture him, to manipulate him with his mouth, but he knew Harry was timid about all of this—wasn't he?

In reality, Harry was acting on impulse. He knew, on some level, that he was flirting as best he knew, not holding back in any respect, but he didn't consciously think about that. Sure, there had been nothing on Draco's face—but touching him had been worthwhile. And, while he was a little timid and nervous about his actions—did he really want this? He knew where it was going—he wasn't about to stop.

Draco cleared his throat, setting his plate down as he finished. It seemed Harry was finished, too, for he set his plate down next to Draco's. Turning, Harry pulled his feet up to his chest and rested them firmly—without hesitating—against Draco's legs. Draco, taking whatever opportunity he could get, turned into the touch and reaffirmed the contact, smiling as he did so. In return, he got a warm smile from Harry, who had an intent look in his eyes—really, was he doing the seducing, or was Harry?

"It's kind of nice to have the others gone," said Harry, not breaking eye contact with Draco, "at least for a little while. I had almost gotten used to being in this house alone with you." Now, if that wasn't an invitation, Harry didn't know what else to say without just coming right out and saying it, however tactless that may be.

Draco, still not sure if he was manipulating or being manipulated, nodded. "It is nice—I missed the quiet and solitude."

"You have to admit that the other three aren't very loud, though—Blaise and Ron are always playing chess, and Hermione's usually watching."

"Yes, but it still doesn't offer the ability to just walk in, undisturbed, and work on the puzzle or just sit and talk. It's like we have to be part of the group, even if we want to work on the puzzle in the corner."

"I know what you mean," said Harry warmly. Was that the subtle expression of a desire for more alone time? Harry asked himself. Or was it just the plain truth, no strings attached?

Suddenly, sound came crashing in on the attic, amplifying in the small space. The rain was falling again, drumming on the roof in a steady, loud rhythm, drowning out the sound of the record player. Harry momentarily hoped that their friends weren't caught out in the rain, but quickly stopped caring—there were more important things at hand.

Harry watched Draco intently as he closed his eyes, listening to the rain falling onto the roof, a serene look falling over his face as he relaxed into the couch. Moving on an impulse, Harry positioned himself so that he was lying down on the couch, turning so that he could rest his head on Draco's relaxed shoulder and letting his feet hang over the arm of the couch, dangling in the air. He felt Draco tense for a moment, then slowly relax again as the sound of rain washed over them.

Harry closed his eyes, listening to the steady patter of the rain. As he drifted into a calmer state, he felt a hand drift to close around his shoulder, resting lightly across his neck; Harry could feel the uncertainty in the movement, but he didn't care. He leaned his head into the shoulder, inhaling Draco's distinct scent.

The two lay like that for long minutes, neither knowing exactly how long it lasted. Eventually, the strength of the rain lessened, letting the sound of the record player drift once more into existence, though Draco wasn't even sure if they needed it any more. Still, the comforting sound of rain beat lightly against the house, creating a subtle undertone to the attic room.

Harry shifted so that he was on his side, his head resting in the crook between Draco's neck and his shoulder, one hand resting lightly on Draco's shirt (the green one) and running random designs over his chest. Draco uncertainly ran one hand through Harry's hair, leaving the other still around Harry's shoulders and resting on his waist.

Though Draco had little doubt in what Harry's intentions were, he still wasn't certain. He certainly would not hesitate given the opportunity, but he clearly remembered Harry's uncertainty and nervousness, the awkward silence, and everything else that accompanied it.

Apparently, though, Harry had put all of that behind him. "I won't mind talking about it now," said Harry quietly, reluctant to disturb the silence that had fallen.

"About what?" asked Draco, wanting to make clear on Harry's desires.

"Don't play stupid," Harry said, smiling. "I don't think you're really as patient as you said you were—I'm pretty sure you'd rather jump me every chance you get, so thanks for holding back. But I realized recently that being nervous about it, not sure what to do about it, isn't going to get me anywhere. So I'm just not going to think about it any more—and, if things work out, I'll have time to examine my feelings, and, if they don't, I'll know what the answer to my question was all this time."

Draco looked down at Harry, who was now staring intently up at him, his hand stopped in mid-design. "And what would that question be?" Draco asked, not able to resist taking the opportunity to find out.

"What would it be like to kiss you again?" said Harry, staring more intensely into Draco's eyes than either of them had imagined possible.

Draco slowly reached down with the hand wrapped in Harry's hair and pulled him up, Harry not resisting. Their eyes searched each other, not breaking contact, for something indefinable and fleeting, yet still present. Finally, their lips met, tasting of sandwich and fries and grease but all the more lovely for it.

Harry slowly moved himself so he was sitting up, sitting backwards on the couch so as to get a better position to kiss yet knowing he wouldn't fall, for Draco's arms were wrapped securely around his lower body, steadying him as his balance was off. Harry reached a hand up and stroked Draco's cheek as they kissed, the other still resting lightly on Draco's chest, never having moved.

The kiss was slow, tentative in every movement, hesitating before each renewal of the contact, before each breath was taken and each subsequent kiss stolen. At some point in time, Draco had closed his eyes, and he had no idea of whether Harry had done the same or not. He was aware that the music had stopped in the background, but he was not willing to take the effort to restart it, feeling that its service was no longer needed in light of their new activity.

Harry moved his hands so they were both wrapped around the back of Draco's head, not allowing the blonde to pull away—not that he would want to, of course. Slowly, Harry became more confident, more insistent, and, finally, he slipped his tongue briefly into Draco's mouth, taking advantage of the brief moment in which it had opened for air. Draco, relishing in the feeling, opened his mouth wider and allowed Harry to devour him, absorbing every sensation he could, concentrating on all the feelings so he could remember them later.

Harry, after thoroughly exploring Draco's mouth, began to explore the rest of his face, kissing eyes, cheeks, the nose, ears, forehead, chin, and anything else he could reach without overbalancing them so that they fell to the ground. Realizing that they might want to find another position, Draco slowly shifted both their bodies so they were stretched out on the couch, with Harry lying on top of him and his arms wrapped around Harry's waist. Harry never ceased his administrations, insisting on returning frequently to devour Draco's mouth again—not that he minded.

With the threat of falling to the floor eliminated, Harry began to explore Draco's neck and collarbone, which was peaking out of the top of the green shirt, with the first button undone. Draco stroked up and down Harry's back lightly, causing Harry to jerk as if tickled or surprised by the light touch, barely there and always moving.

Slowly, Harry began to back off on his administrations, almost sated with his takings. Draco certainly had no complaints. Harry came to rest his head back in the crook between Draco's shoulder and head, where it had originally started and where Draco's scent was strongest, taking over his senses and washing him in comfort. Slowly, as the euphoria of kissing died away, the sound of rain drifted over the two again. Draco tilted his head to look at Harry with the best of his ability (which, due to the placement of Harry's head, wasn't easy).

Harry's eyes were closed, his breathing steady and content, a smile on his kiss-swollen lips. Harry let out a content sigh, settling further into Draco's arms as he relaxed, which tightened around Harry's waist, drawing them closer together.

"Draco?" murmured Harry, his eyes still closed, the smile still in place.

"Hmm?" Draco smiled down on Harry, though the dark-haired boy couldn't see it, and placed a chaste kiss on the top of his head.

"Thank you. You know—for the thank-you." Draco had to smile at that—sure, Harry was repeating himself from earlier, but the meaning was entirely different now.

"My pleasure," said Draco, eliciting a giggle from Harry.

"I'm sure it's your pleasure," teased Harry.

Draco relinquished his hold around Harry's waist, bringing one hand up to stroke his cheek. Harry leaned into the touch, inhaling deeply and letting the air out slowly, his smile deepening. Without opening his eyes, he placed a kiss in the palm of Draco's hand. Then, bringing his own hand up to Draco's, he maneuvered the hand so that he could kiss every inch of it, touching every finger, every crease, every knuckle with his lips before finally leaving the hand and twining his fingers with Draco's. Feeling the desire rise within him again, he pulled himself up to kiss Draco again, though more sedately now, merely relishing in the feeling, in the touch. He left their hands twined, stroking Draco's, with his thumb and squeezing at irregular intervals, whenever the thought arose.

Harry opened his lids to look into Draco's eyes with his own half-open eyes, a content, lazy smile gracing his face, his chin resting on Draco's chest. "You smell nice," he said coquettishly.

Draco smiled. "Thank you—so do you, I might add." Harry just smiled, choosing not to reply.

Slowly, Harry shifted back to his first position, head resting on Draco's shoulder, their hands still intertwined. Their legs, somehow having become wrapped together in the process of their activities, were hanging a little over the edge of the couch, but the awkwardness of the position did not discourage Harry from drifting to sleep in Draco's warmth. Draco, unable and unwilling to move, soon followed example, drifting into a light doze. Before he fell completely asleep, he reached up for his wand—placed, at some point in time, on the table beside his head—and set an alarm for an hour later so they would not be caught by their friends. He had no idea what time it was, but he was not quite willing to risk someone walking in on them—even Blaise.

**xxx**

An hour later, the alarm went off. Draco slowly shook himself out of his slumber, realizing belatedly that his foot was all pins and needles, yet not caring in light of the heavy comfort of the body still sleeping on top of him. They had shifted very little, though Harry's other arm had come up to rest above Draco, wrapping loosely above his head.

Draco brought his free hand—the one not intertwined with the Gryffindor's—to lightly stroke Harry's cheek. Harry subconsciously leaned into the touch, a smile spreading across his face for the millionth time that day. Draco leaned down and began kissing Harry's face lightly, drawing him out of his slumber with his warm, slightly wet and not entirely undesirable ministrations.

As Harry struggled up from unconsciousness, Draco moved in on Harry's mouth, determining that he was due a thorough exploration of Harry's mouth. Harry finally struggled out of his sleep, squeezing their twined hands and pulling himself closer to Draco. Draco, his free hand wrapped once again around Harry's waist, carefully maneuvered their bodies so he could be on top and reach more of Harry's body with the freedom of movement.

Harry submitted to Draco's mouth willingly, wanting to relax in the attention. Draco slipped his tongue in Harry's mouth, repeating the actions Harry had performed earlier, though with more skill due to his frequent practice in the prior year. He soon had Harry squirming under him with the sensations. Draco was nearly straddling Harry, their bodies separated by only inches as they kissed, his hand running in the same light, fleeting, almost insubstantial way as it had over Harry's back previously, causing Harry to jerk and shiver.

Breathing hard, Draco finally pulled away, knowing that if he went much further he might not be able to stop, and knowing that going that far would not be conducive to furthering their relationship. Furthermore, he sensed on some level that Blaise, Hermione and Ron would be returning soon. Not wishing to be caught in some unmentionable act, he decided that resting his forehead on Harry's was a much safer course to take.

Still breathing hard, just as Harry was, he closed his eyes and smiled. "That was—"

"Yeah," said Harry, finishing the intangible thought they both understood, though it would be impossible to explain to anyone else.

Draco opened his eyes. Reaching for his wand once again, he discovered it was nearly four in the afternoon. "They should be home soon—it doesn't take terribly long to get those supplies, despite Ron's incurable curiosity with muggle artifacts and therefore the many distractions that would occur."

"You called him by his first name…" mused Harry aloud.

"'Weasley' is no longer appropriate, and there's not a lot else I can call him. I reckon it's better to mend things now than to get in fights for the rest of our lives. It seems I might be investing a lot more time with him in the future, if I'm to invest my time with you in a similar manner for any extended period of time."

"I'm not sure if that's romantic or insulting, but I'll take the first," said Harry, smiling and placing a chaste kiss on Draco's nose.

"Good, because that's what it's meant as," Draco muttered, deepening the kiss for a moment and then, remembering is earlier decision, pulling back.

"So," said Harry after a moment, "we should probably go, hmm?"

"I guess," said Draco, though he made no move to get up.

Draco chuckled. "Now, shall we head downstairs and await their return like nothing happened? I'm sure Blaise will know almost immediately—that knack at reading people, though handy at times, is quite annoying when you're trying to hide something—but Ron and Hermione should be virtually clueless."

"Sounds alright to me," said Harry.

Neither of them moved for quite a while after they resolved to move downstairs, but it didn't matter in the end; it still took an hour for Ron, Hermione and Draco to return, having suffered a very embarrassing series of events involving Ron and a mailbox ("So this is how Muggles transport their mail? Is their anything inside? How fast is it? What happens?" "Ron! Don't go in—no—it's small in there—you won't be able to get out. Please, Ro—ohh, shit." "I've never heard you curse before, Hermione." "So how do you propose we get him out of there?" "You're the expert on muggles, so don't look at me." "Lots of help you are, Zabini. Stop laughing, will you?").

Draco was right—Blaise knew almost immediately, sending a wink and an all-knowing smile Draco and Harry's way. Harry blushed, and luckily Ron and Hermione were still arguing intensely about the mailbox incident and did not notice the color in his cheeks. Draco just smiled and discretely brushed Harry's hand as he walked by with the intent of getting a glass of water.

**xxx**

A/N: Okay, so not only is it incredibly fluffy and all the action (well, maybe not _all_) you've wanted for 20 or so chapters now, but it's also extraordinarily long. Johnny demands that such lengths to please you people deserves a review from each and every one of you.

**FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW OF THE NEXT CHAPTER:** see the **Food for Thought** forum (and comment, please, with questions/comments/random babbling).


	22. Chocolate Ice Cream

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT **

**Chapter 22: Chocolate Ice Cream**

**Important A/N:** I would like to give a whole lot of thanks to my Brit-picking-beta. Without here, there would be many tense mistakes (long story) and Americanisms riddling my poor writing. So we should all be grateful for her wonderful-ness.

**Important A/N 2: **Sorry for the chapter's lateness. The weeks been a busy one--and not in a good way.

**xxx**

Harry was happy—unbelievably happy, in a giddy, I've-had-too-much-of-a-good-thing happy kind of way. He had yet to stop smiling—sure it had been a day since The Wondrous Afternoon, as he liked to call it, but it felt as if it had all just been the last minute, as if he were still coming up for a breath of air from one long, lustful, wistful kiss.

He was packing now, of course. Tomorrow, they would return to Hogwarts. All the dreams he had time to dream over the past twenty-four hours could very well be smashed to pieces. All his desires and passions could very well be crushed amongst the pressure of school and homework and NEWTs and house rivalries and everything else.

Or it could not. Or it could all be marvelously okay, and he would live happily for a period of time. How long, he wasn't sure. He was just happy right now.

A shape darkened the room—the only light came from the hallway and the dimming light from the window outside, as Harry was too lazy and too occupied to muster the energy of a light. Harry turned to find Hermione leaning against the doorpost.

"'Ello, 'Mione," Harry said happily, a grin spread across her face.

Hermione gave him an odd look, and Harry made it a point to tone down his enthusiasm a bit—he might become overly suspicious if he weren't careful. "Hello, Harry. What's making you so happy lately? You can't seem to stop smiling."

Harry smiled wider and turned to place a shirt carelessly in his trunk. Hermione gently took it out of his hands and started folding it, placing it neatly on top of his books and retrieving the rest of shirts from eternal wrinkled-ness. "I'm just excited to return to school," said Harry, quick to think of an excuse. Sure, it wasn't exactly true—far from reality might be more accurate—but it was a good enough excuse that even Hermione wouldn't question it too much. He'd been cooped up for a little over two months—surely she would believe he was just excited to get out of the house.

"That's a bit of a small thing to be so giddy over, don't you think?" she asked, placing another shirt on top of the previous one and smoothing it out.

Obviously she wasn't that ignorant. Time to back up the excuse. "'Mione, I've been either here or with my relatives all summer. Though your visits are bloody wonderful, they don't exactly fill up all the time. I want out of here. Now. School is more of a home to me than anything else, though I suppose this place will soon become homey enough that I don't want to ever leave it. But I highly doubt I'll actually enjoy spending time here until after Voldemort's gone, when I can come and go of my own accord. Then I'll probably coop myself up here and do puzzles and read books every last minute of the day and complain when I have to leave them—but for now, I just want to have the decision to leave my precious puzzles for a stroll around town, to the shopping center, or just _somewhere_ I can not be watched and guarded every moment of my life."

Hermione nodded, accepting the excuse, no matter how untrue it was—leaving the house actually meant leaving alone time with Draco, but Harry wasn't about to add that into the equation. "I can understand that," she said as she carefully placed socks around the shirts so they would not wrinkle all the effort she put into folding the undergarments, which would never bee seen by any person anyways and therefore did not actually need to be wrinkle-free. "You just seem really happy. It's nice, actually. You should smile more often—I know you laugh and smile a lot, but sometimes…well, it seems like you force it every so often. It's nice to know you're smiling because you're happy, and not because you don't want everyone to ask you what's wrong."

Harry smiled and patted Hermione on the back, and then he handed her the pants—he knew that if he threw them in the trunk without folding them—and doing so to her satisfaction—she would just take them back out and refold them. It was better to save at least one of them effort.

Harry brought other items of clothing and necessities to the bed as Hermione folded all his clothes—even the underwear, which _no_ one would see (unless things got—well, Harry wasn't continuing that train of thought, no matter how tempting it might be). "You would think you'd have learned how to fold by now," Hermione added as she picked up yet another pair of pants.

Harry laughed. "All the lessons in the world could not teach me how to seamlessly fold a pair of pants so that I could take them out later, give them a good shake, and wear them without ever pressing them, 'Mione, and you know that."

Hermione shook her head and sighed, a playful smile on her face. "Yes, sadly enough, I know. It would have been helpful to know this before I tried to teach you eight times how to fold a shirt decently."

"So what are you doing up here, anyways?" asked Harry as he handed her a robe.

"Ron and Blaise are playing another game of chess, and Draco's watching, and even I can't take that much of the game. They're right mad, I think." Hermione smiled sadly as she flattened the robe in the trunk. "I wish—well, Ron's just been a bit occupied lately. He thinks of the chess more than me, and when he's not playing it, he's talking about it. What do you think will happen if he gets this distracted with other things, you know—later?"

Harry could hear the unspoken "when we're married," but he knew not to bring it up. He heard from Ron that Hermione had brought it up once, and it hadn't gone over well. Frankly, he thought them all a bit young to think of marriage, but then he always remembered that his parents had gotten married out of their seventh year and had started dating in their sixth. Though Hermione and Ron had started dating at the end of their fifth year, they were only a year ahead of his parents—they very well could make it to their last year, and then they'd be married. Harry suppressed any misgivings he had about that—they would still be the Trio, he knew, though it might change a bit And when they had kids—well, take things as they come.

Harry currently had no intentions of marrying; though he loved the idea of marriage, there wouldn't be a single person out there who wouldn't see him for the 'Boy Who Lived.' Well, there were maybe a few. But they were few and far between, and it could prove a difficult task to find such a one. Unless…

As if on cue, another shape darkened the doorway to Harry's room, which was becoming increasingly dark as night fell. Harry turned to see Draco standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the same post Hermione had leaned against a few minutes ago, a smug smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes that Harry could only interpret as mischievous and absolutely stunning, all in one.

"Hello, Draco," he said slowly, carefully, as he turned around to his trunk, going through the steps of packing (though he was merely rearranging the items on his bed over and over) so that he wouldn't jump Draco right then and there, for, no matter how tempting the thought was, Hermione was still in the room.

"Hello, Harry, Hermione," said Draco. He was making an obvious attempt to use Hermione's and Ron's first names, and they had commented on it earlier in the day—even Ron could find nothing to grumble about in that area, no matter how badly he wanted to mutter all sorts of nasty things under his breath about scheming ferrets who didn't know their place.

"Hello, Draco. I presume the boys are still at their game?" she asked politely as she placed the last shirt in the trunk. She placed a charm on it to make sure the clothes would not wrinkle and sat triumphantly on the bed, satisfied that her work was done and Harry would arrive with neat, unwrinkled boxers, if it came to that.

Draco gave a winning smile that Harry could feel through his back, though he didn't dare turn around and witness it for fear of not being able to contain himself. Really, all this pent-up emotion and sexual frustration could not be healthy, especially after only one day of kissing—no matter how wonderful that kissing was, and how good it felt when Draco nibbled on his ear or ran his long, supple fingers through Harry's hair. "Do they do anything but? They're still tied, though I think Blaise is concocting a strategy to defeat Ron as we speak. Still, that's not saying much—they tend to do so constantly. I'm pretty sure they dream about chess now."

Harry laughed, forcing his voice to be normal. "I don't think Ron dreamed about anything else when he was younger—admittedly, Hermione's been in his dreams quite a bit, but she was probably dressed up as a chess piece at the time."

Hermione let out a sound of frustration. "Right. Because he thinks of nothing else, especially lately."

Harry put a hand on Hermione's shoulder, still avoiding looking at Draco. "Don't worry, 'Mione. He'll be back to himself soon enough, just as soon as the glamour of a real chess player wears off. I give it a week, tops."

Hermione nodded, then decided it best to change the topic—she didn't like being so open around Draco, no matter how nice he seemed lately. "What's for dinner, Harry? Didn't Mrs. Weasley offer to come cook for you on your last day of freedom?"

Harry nodded. "She did, but I refused. I wanted our last day of freedom to be specifically that—ours. I told her that we could manage on our own, though thanks for the offer. This way, we can stay up late, discuss the prank, and play a few games of Exploding Snap that you and I will inevitably lose, while Blaise beats us all and Ron and Draco battle it out for second."

"It sounds like fun to me. So, what are we having, again?"

"Chicken, pasta, corn, rolls, and anything else I can think of. Let me know if you want something specific. I asked Mrs. Weasley to send me some of the best chocolate from Honeydukes, so we'll have that for desert. It'll be grand, I think."

"That all sounds wonderful, Harry. Can I help with anything?"

Harry smiled. "Actually, if you could thaw the chicken with that nifty spell you have, that would be helpful. I always mess it up—it's always either still frozen or too dry."

"Sure. I'll get right no that, then." Hermione turned and walked out the door, leaving Harry alone with Draco. Oh, bother.

Harry pointedly rearranged the leftover items on his bed, not sure what to do now that he actually had the privacy. He nervously began placing things in the trunk, arranging them and rearranging them. He placed a picture in the trunk, then took it back out again. He then put a book in the trunk and placed the picture on top. As he was reaching for his comb, a hand came out to still his own.

"You know, there are spells that do this sort of thing for you," whispered Draco, who was so close that his warm, wet breath was tickling across his neck, ear, and hair. A delightful shiver stole through Harry's body, leaving him tingly all over.

Harry spun around, his hand still in Draco's, to find the Slytherin so close he barely had room to move. Harry leaned against the bedpost to give them both a little space, though even that space was annoying and undesirable. Harry felt warm and giddy and all too happy with the world, and he felt it was the most perfect feeling in the world.

"I know. But I like packing—it's almost a ritual. Of moving on, you know. Going somewhere, leaving something behind, and looking forward to what's to come."

"That's silly. It's menial work, fid only for a house elf or spell. My mum taught me the spell when I was little—she wanted me to be able to pack my things with a wave of the wand when I came home for Christmas and at the end of the year, since the house elves wouldn't do it for us and all the other boys would be doing it by hand. It would put me a step above all the other boys. Of course, all the other pureblood mummies though the same way she did, so we all knew the advanced spell, but that didn't matter—all that she was concerned with was that my spell was the best, the most efficient, and the envy of every other little boy in that room."

"That's evil and twisted in some way that I don't understand," said Harry, "but I'm not entirely surprised." Harry's breathing was a bit fast and harsh, but that couldn't be helped—Draco was so close, and he was still giddy over yesterday, let alone this moment.

Draco smiled and leaned closer, closing the gap between them. In some part of his brain, Harry noted that Draco had just waved his wand and whispered some words, and all his stuff was in his trunk and he no longer had anything to pack, but all Harry could focus on was Draco's smell, his voice, breath, and the memory of his taste.

Before he knew it, he had leaned forward to press his lips into Draco's; he didn't pull his arms up to pull Draco any closer but, rather, awkwardly leaned forward while still leaning against the bedpost, their hands lightly intertwined and pressed between their chests, and a warm and fuzzy feeling crawled up throughout Harry's body as he thought how wonderful this moment was, and a content smile slid across his face as he pulled away, resting his head against the bedpost and grateful for its existence, or else his body would already have melted to the floor in a heap of warmth and fuzziness and happiness that is inexpressible in thoughts or words, only able to be experienced in his feelings.

Draco smiled. "You taste of chocolate, you know. Have you already dipped into the stash from Honeydukes?"

Harry gave a quite laugh. "Of course! How else would I discover if it had been poisoned on its way through the Weasley household, with Fred and George still there? They're almost out of the house, about to move to a flat about Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, but they're yet to get that far—and they need _something_ to test their latest invention on."

"A spell would have worked."

"You're ruining my fun, Malfoy. Stop it, before I throw a fit and storm out of the room to cook the chicken."

Draco leaned into Harry, pressing their twined hands between them, and kissed him again; it seemed that every inch of their bodies were touching, and Harry found it heavenly.

When Draco pulled away, Harry stared up at him for a happy moment, a glorious expression on his face. "Fun restored," Harry said with a sigh. Draco laughed and pulled away, though their hands were still wrapped together.

"You should get down there to make that dinner before Hermione becomes more suspicious than she already is and comes up here, only to find us in some romantic tryst," said Draco playfully.

"You really think she suspects?" Harry asked, rubbing his thumb in small circles against Draco's hand.

"For certain," said Draco. "You're not exactly subtle, and you were certainly avoiding acknowledging my presence just now," he said. "Really, you're not much of a Slytherin if you can't contain your feelings with more skill."

Harry stuck his tongue out, then quickly pulled it back inside his mouth, just as Draco darted forward to capture it with his own mouth, failing by only a fraction of a second. "You're just jealous of my gorgeous body."

"That has nothing to do with this conversation, Harold James Potter," said Draco, who took a defiant posture, which was ruined only by the fact that he was still holding Harry's hand, unwilling to release it, and that he had dirt smudged on his face. Harry gently wiped it off before he continued.

"How did you find out my middle name?" asked Harry suspiciously.

"Blaise seems to know everything about every person in the school," Draco said triumphantly. "Therefore, I know everything about every person in the school."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, I highly doubt you know _everything_."

Draco raised a single eyebrow. "I _will_ find out what you mean by that look. However, I do not believe I can remain here longer without rightly ravishing you on this bed, so I must be off before someone walks in on us and the situation becomes more uncomfortable than it needs be. We will meet again soon, dear Savior." Draco leaned down with a flourish and kissed the hand he held.

Harry made a face. "Don't call me that—I get enough of that from strangers that I don't need it from you, too, of all people. I much prefer jokes about my desire for fame and all, as I know those comments to be untrue and can therefore ignore them."

"Whatever you ask, dear Savior," said Draco mockingly. "I am yours to command." Draco left with a flourish and a bow, leaving Harry to stare after him wistfully. After a few minutes, he motivated himself to walk down to the kitchen, sending the chess game only a passing glance and purposefully avoiding Draco's eyes as he passed. He found Hermione in the kitchen, who had taken the initiative to prepare the chicken as well, and she was doing a right good job of messing it up.

"You don't cook much, do you, 'Mione?" Harry asked as he gently pushed her away from the kitchen.

Hermione scowled. "You would think that following the directions of a cookbook would be easy—like Potions, or something."

"Ah, but it takes so much more skill than stirring a cauldron sixty-eight and a half times, alternating clockwise and counter-clockwise strokes, except for the forty-second stir, which has to be straight across the cauldron while adding Unicorn hair at the exact time it reaches the other side of the cauldron."

"Right. I'll take your word on that, Harry, and I promise to leave all further cooking in your hands."

Dinner went as well as could be expected when five people sit together who once used to be enemies. Harry sat at the head of the table, with Draco on one side and Hermione on the other (Ron and Draco could not be trusted to sit across from each other, as there would be many bruised shins later in the dinner), and Harry and Draco's thighs were touching under the table, with Harry blushing and Blaise smiling as if he noticed nothing, Ron noticing nothing and Hermione looking suspiciously between Harry and Draco, though she still had too little evidence to more than suspect anything, and she certainly couldn't get Ron all riled up on suspicious, so she would have to wait to voice her opinion.

Ron was happily oblivious to any suspicious happenings, stuffing his face with the meal he repeatedly praised as "the best bloody food in England, if not on the face of the world."

Between bites at some point in time in the meal, he asked, "So everything's set for tomorrow, right?" A little bit of juice dribbled out of his mouth, which he promptly wiped with a towel, ignoring Hermione's disapproving glare as best he could. This meal was just too good to ruin with proper etiquette.

"We're set," said Blaise happily. "The balloons have all been spelled. My job will be complete before everyone sits down in the Great Hall."

Hermione pointedly put a small portion of food in her mouth chewed six times, and politely swallowed before speaking. Ron rolled his eyes. "Ron and I will be done before everyone gets up from the tables; we have to be back to escort the first years to the dorm, of course, but we'll have no problem doing that."

"I'll get in touch with Dobby before we leave in the morning," said Harry. "We'll meet before everyone's seated in the Great Hall and get everything arranged. He'll be positively gleeful to help 'Dear, Kind, Generous, Benevolent Mister Harry,' I believe." Harry gave a winning smile to the table. "Draco?" he asked, nudging the blond.

Draco smiled. "I will be sitting at the table in the Great Hall through it all, of course, not drawing suspicion in any way. And my task will be completed as they all watch me, wondering how I can look so gorgeous without even trying."

The others at the table rolled their eyes, though Harry silently agreed. They cleaned up what was left of dinner—not much, as what was not eaten by Hermione, Harry, Blaise or Draco, was happily devoured by Ron.

Soon, they were all sitting in the living room. Ron watched as Hermione and Blaise played a game of chess, trying to glean anything that might be useful to defeat his opponent in the future. There had to be some sign he could use, but he had yet to find it—some trick, some habit, some _thing_ that would give Blaise away.

Harry and Draco sat happily at their puzzle table, determined to finish and hang it before they left for school. They would take the puzzles Hermione had brought back from the shopping center with them to school and set them up in some unused classroom so that they could continue to work on them throughout the year. Harry even had the idea that the Room of Requirement might provide them with something or other, if it were to come to that.

Harry was concentrating on getting a colorful piece—all blue and pink, which looked exactly like half the other pieces in the puzzle—when something bumped against his thigh. Harry glanced up, but Draco was studiously examining a piece and the puzzle box, trying to divine its place amongst the other pieces.

Harry returned his attention to the puzzle, but the bump came again—Draco kept nudging his foot against Harry's. One of Draco's hands, which was conveniently placed under the table, came to rest on Harry's leg, right above his knee, and promptly began tracing light patterns there.

The heat rose in Harry's face, and he was sure that if anyone absorbed in the chess game cared to look up for half a fraction, they would be able to tell that something was different; luckily, they were all very engrossed in their game, happy to ignore the puzzle-goers in the corner.

Harry discretely moved so that his leg was pressing up against Draco's—determined not to let Draco have the say in everything that was happening—and grinned as a faint pink came across Draco's cheeks, though it faded quickly. Draco leaned across the table, brushing Harry's hand with his own in the process. Harry smiled and purposefully licked his lips slowly.

The game went on for at least twenty minutes before Harry realized that he had an uncomfortable development in his nether-regions. Not quite ready for such a realization, despite the enjoyment he gained from kissing Draco, he decided something must be done—a cold shower, he determined, would be the best course of action.

Harry looked around. It seemed Hermione had gained a little bit of ground in the game, though even Harry could tell it wouldn't last for long. Ron was thoroughly absorbed in the game and would not be shaken out of his stupor for a long while. Blaise wouldn't care, and Draco—well, Draco would have to deal with it. The puzzle was still far from being finished, so he wasn't afraid it would be finished while he was gone.

Harry stood up, grateful for muggle jeans that didn't quite fit. "I'm going to take a shower," he said, though he was sure Draco was the only one who heard it. "I'll only be a few minutes."

Draco nodded, grinning maliciously, which Harry tried desperately to ignore as he traveled up the stairs to his room. He decided showering in his room would be best—it would be quick, and he wouldn't have to traverse the hallway in a towel to get some clean clothes to wear.

In the shower—which was slightly colder than necessary, but perfectly acceptable—he scrubbed all over, making sure to become as sparkly clean as physically possible. When he stepped out, the mirror was decidedly clean of condensed water, as it normally was after a shower. Harry smiled ruefully and looked at himself. His hair was still messy, but there was nothing to be helped for that. He might be slightly more filled out than he had been at the beginning of the summer, but he couldn't really tell. His body was still wet with beads of water from the shower, forming little rivulets as they pooled at his feet, and he decided he had probably spent enough time gazing at himself in the mirror—he was just happy it wasn't bewitched to compliment and/or degrade him.

Harry wasn't quite sure what had gotten into him, in reality. He'd never really thought about dating other boys, but now that he had, he knew it was right. That he figured it out with Draco Malfoy, of all people, was the shocker. He was nervous and afraid, but he wasn't going to let that stop him—Gryffindor courage, right? Anyways, he much preferred the embarrassing but pleasant interactions to the nervous and awkward ones of before, where he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do. Though he still wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do, he wasn't about to sit about and let everything pass him by awkwardly. So he had decided to make the move, since Draco obviously wasn't going to make an obvious one until he knew it was okay (which, Harry reminded himself, he was immensely grateful for). He was scared, but not as much any more—well, not true. But half the fun is in being scared, Harry thought, so he would press forward regardless of any dreaded outcome.

Harry stepped out of the bathroom and headed straight for the closet, eager to return downstairs and continue the puzzle and be with Draco just a little longer before they had to return to school.

So absorbed with his thoughts, he didn't notice the figure sitting on his bed. It stood up before he ever realized it's presence—he was already trying to figure out how to reach his wand, on the nightstand across the room, before he realized who was surprising him—Draco.

Harry glanced up at the door—closed, as it should be. He stood, wet and dripping, only a towel around his waist, eyebrow cocked and a goofy smile on his face. "And what are you doing?" he asked, laughter in his voice.

"Admiring the view. It's not often I'm treated to such a sight, despite my efforts." Draco took a moment to admire Harry's body—the damp hair plastered to his body, the water running everywhere, the nervous, happy glance. Harry blushed and mumbled something incoherent. "What was that, dear?"

"Nothing," said Harry, obviously rethinking the intelligence-level of what he had almost said and deciding it not worth the effort.

"Don't worry. They think I'm packing—well, Ron and Hermione do; they don't realize I know an incredible packing spell that gets everything done neatly, efficiently, and quickly. Blaise knows that I'm bluffing to be alone with you, but I'm not sure he cares enough to even think about it—he's far too enthralled with the game. Hermione's doing pretty well—I think Blaise might almost be scared. Almost, but not quite."

Harry grinned. "Really? Almost scared? How intriguing," he said blandly.

"Not as intriguing as you," said Draco coyly, an impish grin on his face. Harry blushed again and gripped the towel a little tighter.

Draco walked languidly up to Harry, who was nervously looking between Draco's eyes and the floor. "So," Harry coughed and paused. He wasn't quite sure what to say, Draco knew, which made it all so much more amusing and endearing.

"Shh," said Draco. "You'll ruin the moment."

Harry finally looked up and met Draco's eyes firmly, though there was still a strong, overpowering look of uncertainty and nervousness in them. Harry forced a grin. Draco smiled warmly back, and Harry relaxed a little. "See?" breathed Draco. "It's not that bad?" His voice was soft and warm, and it breezed against Harry's face due to Draco's proximity. Harry's breath hitched, which he found incredibly uncomfortable and not at all like what he had heard it described as by amorous fools who try to explain every sensation as if it's the most wonderful in the world. The sad part was, Harry bemusedly thought, this possibly _was_ the most wonderful sensation in the world—and even the uncomfortable breath-hitching was worth it.

Draco leaned forward and placed a soft, warm, slightly sloppy kiss on Harry's lips. He pulled away a tiny bit and breathed out slowly, filling Harry's senses with the presence that was distinctly Draco. The taste, smell, touch, sound, and sight all flooded Harry's brain until he thought he might pass out due to its sheer greatness.

Harry reached up with the hand not holding the towel and eagerly pulled Draco back into the kiss with a gentle hand at the nape of the neck. Draco complied, and he wrapped his arms around Harry's body in response (steering clear of the towel, which he could sense was Forbidden).

Harry tangled his free hand in Draco's hair and pulled closer, and their teeth bumped together. It was an unpleasant feeling, but it was worth it when it came to Draco, he thought. He was getting hot and sweaty, which was the opposite of why he took a cold shower in the first place. Draco wrapped his arms tighter and they paused everything, sharing an intense moment; their mouths stopped working, their muscles tensed and remained still, their breathing stopped—all to experience the feeling more completely, to make it last as long as physically possible, pressed together as close as possible, tense and waiting, as if some rosy-cheeked cherub would soon come out of the heavens and proclaim the glory that was their passion. It was a moment of completeness, created out of the true absorption both boys experience in the moment, and neither wished for it to end.

Finally, the moment eased away; they began breathing again, and Draco's muscles relaxed a little, and Harry loosened the tight grip he had in Draco's hair. They each breathed out with something that was a mix of a sigh of ecstasy and a moan belying the end of the beautiful, powerful moment.

Draco pulled away a little and rested his head against Harry's. He was on tiptoes, but he couldn't tell if it was to make himself taller (was he shorter? He couldn't remember just then) or to get the perfect angle to lean their heads together comfortably. Draco couldn't seem to catch his breath or make his heart slow down, but he wasn't sure he wanted to, either.

"I was wondering," said Draco breathlessly. "What do you want to do when we return to school?"

"I thought we had decided this already," responded Harry.

"I don't remember. Regardless, things have changed slightly." Harry nodded. "It's just, you haven't even told Ron and Hermione, and, though I know you will, because you can't seem to keep anything from them, I thought you might want to keep this a secret for a little while—I know you don't like the press and all, and this would just attract their attention even more. If they find out, then they find out—but we can address that issue when it comes."

Harry nodded. "You're right. I hate the press. And if it gets out to the school, it will be in the _Daily Prophet_ within seconds."

"Good. I'm glad we agree—posing for the _Daily Prophet_ is not exactly pleasing to me."

Harry smiled, closed his eyes, and debated pulling Draco closer again. He remembered the towel and why it was there. No, it'd probably best to just calm down so that he needn't take another cold shower. Yes, that was the best course of action. Right? Oh, he couldn't think, and he wasn't sure he cared much at all that his brain was too muddled to form a complete sentence, no matter how long or short.

"I—you should get back," said Harry. "Even without a serious spell, they'd expect you back soon. Me, too—I don't take incredibly long showers."

"Thirteen minutes exactly, on a normal day. Closer to seventeen if you're feeling particularly dirty or introspective. Today it was about sixteen minutes."

"You have that memorized?"

This time, it was Draco's turn to blush. "I've lived with you for a couple of weeks, and you sometimes take two showers a day. Some people tend to notice this, especially when said someone's waiting on the shower and you beat said person to it by a fraction of a second."

"You could have showered in your room those couple of times, you know," commented Harry, smiling. "The hot water won't run out."

"I know. But I don't like that shower—it's too small and cramped and ugly. I like the big bathroom, with its space and whiteness and cleanliness. It's much better."

Harry laughed. "If you say so. But I would like to add that I find you very odd."

"Comment like that again—I have many more insults stored up my sleeve, and 'very odd' is child's play compared to them."

"Then why didn't you use one?" asked Harry, grinning maniacally.

Draco faltered. "Because I do not wish to offend your sensibilities. You are, after all, quite effeminate."

"This coming from the shopping nut who made me try on more pairs of pants than I've owned my entire life and is obsessed with decorating and dressing properly—and have I mentioned that you often spend an hour grooming your hair alone?"

Draco glared at Harry. However, it was hard to hold such an attitude when he was still firmly wrapped in Harry's arms, and Harry was wearing only a towel and was still wet (and dripping) and smelled faintly of vanilla and brown sugar.

Finally, Draco smiled. "Fine. But I must say—make sure to check your bed tonight. There might be something nasty in it."

"And if I don't go to bed?" Harry questioned. "Because I fully intend to stay up all night, and keep you all up with me, if only so that we may enjoy the last of our vacation to its fullest."

Draco smiled. "I concede, then."

Harry grinned haughtily. "I think that's the first time you've ever admitted that I've won an argument."

"That's because you've never won an argument before. You've never even been right."

Harry looks at Draco, and then he said dryly, "Would you like me to list them?" Draco thought, and decided it was best to shake his head, which he did rapidly. Harry smiled. "Off with you, then. I must get dressed, and they're waiting for us downstairs. I'll be right there."

Draco nodded and moved to leave; however, his progress was stopped by Harry's free hand, which reached out once more and jerked Draco back so that Harry could place one last, final, happy kiss on Draco's lips. Harry let go and turned away; Draco was so shocked that he just stood where he was, a happy smile on his face. Harry flicked a glance over his shoulder, a wide smile on his face, and Draco nearly melted. Finally, he turned and left the room, a goofy grin across his face. Blaise will know what happened, Draco thought, but he didn't really care much what Blaise thought.

Moments after Draco sat at the puzzle table, happy smile still on his face, Harry walked down. He was still wet, and he had no pajama top on, and his pants were hanging off the hips, and Draco felt utterly useless and so very happy. Harry stopped at the chess game, which had changed—Hermione had lost, but only by a small margin, and Ron was now playing. Harry pretended to be interested in the game, but everyone knew he really didn't care what was happening in it. He soon lost interested in even pretending to care and joined Draco at the puzzle table.

They bumped legs under the table and brushed hands discretely throughout the hour, but no one playing chess noticed. Harry even giggled once—giggled!—but no one heard but Draco, and he was fine with that.

At the end of the hour, the chess game finished—Ron beat Blaise (by a single move—in the next move, Blaise would have won), and was wearing a happy grin across his face. Harry got up from the puzzle—it probably needed only half an hour more of work, at most, and that was if they continued at the distracting and slow pace they had kept for the past hour.

Harry stretched, belatedly realizing that Draco watched every single move he made eagerly. Harry almost blushed, but was able to restrain himself in front of his friends, who were just coming out of their chess-induced stupor.

"Up for a game of Exploding Snap, anyone?" asked Ron, thinking his luck might press on just enough so that he might beat Blaise at that, too—or, at least, beat Draco. If he beat Blaise, though, he figured he would just have to stop playing Blaise at any game, whatsoever—that way, he would eternally be able to gloat about his two victories in a single day.

"I'll play," says Blaise, who was hoping to redeem his honor by thrashing Ron at Exploding Snap. Hermione soon agreed, as did Harry and Draco. It had been Harry's desire, after all, and Draco wasn't about to refuse getting away from the puzzle (which was becoming infuriating, as even he could tell they were very close, yet he couldn't seen to get a single piece), and he wasn't about to give up the opportunity to be around Harry some more—not when they were having such a wonderful day between them—in more ways than one.

Harry, Hermione and Draco readily joined in the game. Too soon to realize, Ron and Blaise were battling it out for first, leaving even Draco behind. Harry and Hermione participated with enthusiasm, but neither expected to win—they just didn't have the reactions or the instincts to play this game. Oh, the tragedies of being muggle-raised.

The game ended with Blaise in the lead, Ron at a close second, Draco somewhere in the middle, and Harry and Hermione not even worth consideration. They played another game in which Draco came much closer to third place, but Ron and Blaise were still too far ahead. Blaise was content when he won the second game as well, having redeemed some of his honor that was stolen in the chess game. That he and Ron were tied for wins and losses (not counting the numerous stalemates) didn't matter; all that counted was that he had been beaten yet again.

The group settled down from the games; it was well past midnight now, probably nearing three, but no one cared to check; they were almost beginning to feel tired—but it was the last day of break, and none were willing to go to sleep. Ron sat at one end of the couch with Hermione's head in his lap; he ran his fingers through her hair and she closed her eyes, sighing contently as she got the attention she had been craving. Blaise pulled up an armchair on one side of the couch, and Draco pulled his favorite chair nearby. Harry stretched out in the middle of the floor, trying to discretely inch closer to Draco without seeming obvious or suspicious. It wasn't working very well, but Ron and Hermione were too preoccupied to notice, and Blaise was encouraging the relationship, so it didn't matter.

Blaise was tired of the silence. Ron and Hermione had each other and were oblivious to the world; Harry and Draco were trying to flirt discretely (and failing miserably, from Blaise's point of view, but he tended to notice more than others), and were only concentrating on the outside world enough not to be so obvious that Hermione's suspicions were increased.

"Would anyone like to play a round of truth or dare?" asked Blaise. A chorus of 'no's answered him. "How about twenty questions?" he asked. Again, they answered no. Blaise quieted. It would take much more than a few suggested games to get this group moving—he would have to take action.

Blaise discretely readied his wand; no one was focusing on him, and it was easier than he had thought—not even Draco suspected a thing, and he could usually predict Blaise with fair accuracy.

With a quick wave of the wand and a whispered spell, Draco was soon drenched in water, and Harry, who had inched a few inches too close, was covered as well. There was silence in the room—Ron had stopped caressing Hermione's curls, and even Hermione had opened her eyes a crack.

Draco stared at Blaise. Harry froze. Blaise began to get up from his chair, but he was too slow, and Draco was too fast—Draco leaped over the distance between them and tackled Blaise, letting out a yell of frustration, yet a playful grin on his face. However, he had not taken into account how close Harry was to his feet, and he tripped over the Gryffindor in the process. Blaise and Draco came tumbling down on top of Harry, who let out an 'oof!' Harry started fighting to get Blaise and Draco off, which only added to the confusion.

Ron, not one to miss out on the fun, jumped in with the intentions to help retrieve Harry and land a few good shots of his own. However, plans changed when Harry accidentally nailed Ron in the groin, and it was every man for himself. Hermione watched on, not sure if she was appalled with the fight or amused at the entire thing. Really, could they be more childish? Hermione thought for a moment. Yes, in fact, they could.

Harry jabbed anything he could—stomachs, legs, backs, arms, chest—not really paying attention to whom he was hitting and not really caring in the first place. He had a wide grin on his face, and he could tell the others were having fun at the same time. Soon, though, it ended; though they had regained a certain amount of energy and no longer wished to go to sleep in any form or fashion, they were worn out.

Harry laid sprawled on his back underneath the pile of boys, who had decided that resting on top of him was not a terribly bad idea, as it took too much energy to move and he wasn't resisting. He could feel the bruises already developing, and he knew Hermione wouldn't fix them for all the chocolate in the world. He figured the others would be sporting similar wounds—a small spot on Draco's cheekbone was already beginning to purple, and Ron had a split lip. At first, Blaise seemed better than the others, but when he moved his arm, he winced and gave a loud groan of protest.

Slowly, Ron rolled off the top, and Blaise followed. Draco remained on Harry for slightly longer than necessary, but eventually rolled off to avoid suspicions. Finally able to breath, Harry let out a content sigh. "Well, that was fun," he said.

Blaise smiled. "Yes, quite. Would you like a drying spell, Harry? I didn't mean to get you wet as well."

Harry shook his head. "No, I'll be fine. It's only water." Harry sat up, an idea dawning on him that he was surprised he hadn't imagined earlier. "You know what this calls for?" he asked, but he continued without waiting for an answer. "Ice cream. That's it. I have vanilla and chocolate, and I have some chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and other stuff lying about. Who wants a bowl?"

The four followed Harry into the kitchen, where he brought down five bowls and two large vats of ice cream. He went straight for the chocolate ice cream and syrup, sending Draco a discrete grin. Draco looked away, blushing slightly, but went for the chocolate ice cream as well.

They returned to the living room with the ice cream and ate it happily. Ron soon got a large smear of syrup across his cheek and down his chin, which Hermione cleaned as a mother would clean her child, right down to the loving and bemused grin and motherly 'tut-tut's.

Draco grinned viciously as a thought came to him. Standing, bowl only half-empty, he went to walk to the kitchen; in the process, he stepped by Blaise, and promptly turned the ice cream bowl upside down in Blaise's lap.

Blaise looked up with a look that said, 'that was poorly disguised and cheap.' Draco just smiled bigger. "Here, let me help you," said Draco. He waved his wand, and the same water spell used earlier came out and drenched Blaise thoroughly. "Oh, sorry—that was a little too much water."

Everyone in the room laughed—even Blaise, though his eyes contained a hidden threat for later. Draco smiled at the threat, inviting the fun and games to continue.

Draco retrieved his bowl and helped himself to more ice cream. When he returned, the dribble of chocolate syrup on Harry's chin was almost irresistible, but he managed to contain his impulse to leap forward and lick it off—really, could Harry eat chocolate ice cream without making a mess? Or was this his way of teasing? Either way, it was tormenting to Draco.

Draco decided to forgo his chair and sit on the floor across from Harry, who was leaned up against the couch. Draco leaned against his own chair (as far away from Blaise as he could manage) and continued eating his ice cream, watching the dribble of syrup grow tantalizingly slowly. Harry flashed a grin when he realized Draco was watching, at which point in time Draco realized that it _was_ teasing, and Harry was being positively evil.

"So, do you think the prank will go smoothly?" Ron asked between bites.

"We've gone over this multiple times," said Blaise. "It will work. Nothing has changed since the last time we told you it work, or the time before that."

Ron ducked his head. "I know. I'm just too excited—I won't be able to live with myself if we can't pull it off."

"Well, we'll just have to be extra efficient, then," said Harry. "We'll make it work—trust me."

Ron grinned. "Good."

Hermione yawned. "We should get into bed, you know. It's almost four, and we do have to get up early tomorrow."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We don't have to get up, 'Mione, if we never go to sleep in the first place. The whole point is to savor our last few hours of vacation."

"Well I," she said, yawning at the same time, "would like to spend my last few hours of vacation sleeping."

Hermione got up and stretched. Ron shrugged and sent a helpless look at Harry, and then he followed her, knowing that if he did not, he would never hear the end of it on the train tomorrow. The two took their bowls to the kitchen, Hermione performed a quick cleaning spell, and they headed up to their respective rooms.

Blaise sighed. "I must be off as well," he said, a mischievous smile on his lips. He yawned, though Harry thought it might be fake, and stood up. "I must have my beauty sleep, after all. Good night." He waved his wand, and a clean bowl flew into the kitchen, landing, Harry assumed, in the right spot in the kitchen cupboards. Show off, Harry thought. He then walked calmly into his room on the bottom floor and shut the door soundly, leaving no guess to as whether it was closed or open.

Harry looked at Draco, who was already staring at him. Suddenly, Draco fairly leaped across the space between them and kissed Harry right below the corner of his lips, smearing the chocolate more than cleaning it off.

Harry laughed. "I thought you wouldn't be able to resist earlier, the way you were looking at it." He spared a glance for the stairs, but neither Ron nor Hermione had returned downstairs for any reason.

"Oh, I nearly failed—you couldn't imagine the torment. Worse, even, than the other night, before Diagon Alley, and you had it all down your face and you didn't even realize it. I nearly jumped you right then and there, but I was able to refrain. I have amazing control, as you can see."

Harry laughed. "Yes, I can see," he said bemusedly. "Though I must admit, you looked pretty desperate."

Draco reached up—awkwardly, since he was now balanced on only one hand and leaning forward in a precarious position—and wiped the smudge of chocolate off Harry's cheek. He then slowly licked the chocolate off his own fingers.

Harry watched as Draco teased him, paying special attention to the tips of his fingers, yet never taking his eyes away from Harry. Soon, it was too much to resist—Harry leaned forward and, pushing Draco's hand away, kissed him hard on the mouth. He pulled Draco closer, causing Draco to fall from his position into Harry's lap. His hands now free, Draco wrapped them around Harry's waist and kissed back.

Finally, they separated. Harry sent another glance to the stairs, but they had not been interrupted—he feared that Ron or Hermione might have forgotten something and come back down, but nothing had happened. Public places, he decided, were horrid places to do anything fun.

Draco pulled back, a goofy grin on his face. "That was nice."

Harry nodded. "Yes, it was." He looked at Draco, but he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, and he wasn't quite sure he had found it. He suddenly realized they had fallen into a slightly awkward silence, and rushed to fix it. "Do you suppose we should finish the puzzle before we go to bed? It'd be awful to leave it unfinished until we return for holidays."

Draco nodded. "The puzzle, it is. How long do you reckon it will take to finish?"

"Half an hour, minimum. More, if we get—err—distracted."

Draco grinned. "Well, then we'd best not get distracted," he said playfully. Instead of doing something, as Harry had expected, he stood up and went to the puzzle, sitting with a comfortable 'plop' and picking up the nearest piece. Harry watched, shook his head, and followed. This could prove to be amusing.

Harry sat closer to Draco than he had dared earlier, as no one was downstairs at this moment and he was sure that if Hermione or Ron had forgotten something, they would have interrupted them much earlier. Still, they both sat facing the stairs, and Draco erected a sensory charm that would warn them of someone's presence. Harry wasn't sure how he had ever lived without magic.

Harry leaned over Draco to reach a puzzle piece (that was, of course, out if his way) and took the opportunity to graze Draco's lips with his own. Draco grinned and pulled Harry back for a deeper kiss—for all they knew, this could be their last opportunity to be together, alone, for quite a while, and Draco intended to use it efficiently.

Harry pulled back, coy smile on his lips. "I said no distractions. Work, Dray."

Draco covered a wince as he began working on the puzzle again—he still wasn't quite sure he wanted Harry to use that nickname. It was Blaise's, and only Blaise's—at least, that's how he saw it. He wasn't going to bring it up quite yet, though—not when they were having such a good time as it was. He'd be sure to bring it up later, though; he had learned with Blaise not to let the problem sit, as it only led to more problems, and those problems led to arguments, which led to an impossible relationship. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice.

Draco changed the depressing train of thought and began plotting a way to get Harry back. Soon, he had figured it out. A devious smirk on his face, he leaned even closer to Harry (which was hard, as their sides were pressed firmly against each other) and breathed in Harry's ear, "Pass me that piece, will you?" Harry reached for a puzzle piece, though Draco could tell he was on edge. "No, the other one," he said softly, blowing on the tender spot right behind the ear as he did so. "Yes, that's it. Thanks," he said, taking the puzzle piece slowly out of Harry's hand. He brushed a kiss lightly against the nape of Harry's neck, barely touching the skin, breathing out softly at the same time. He didn't pull away until he felt Harry shiver.

When he finally pulled away with the intention to place the puzzle piece, no matter what it took, Harry pulled him back for a desperate kiss. Draco smiled into the kiss—he seemed to be doing a lot of smiling lately, but he didn't mind. In fact, he could get quite used to the frequent smiles and more frequent kisses, whether desperate, slow, passionate, or hard.

In the end, it took a little over an hour to finish the puzzle. The entire time carried on much the same, with stolen kisses and teasing touches. In the end, they were both flushed and sporting kiss-swollen lips and happy little grins. They paused for a bit longer, almost refusing to leave each other's presence, but they knew they could not be found in the morning together—it would be too hard to avoid suspicions in such an event.

They walked slowly to their rooms, pausing often for kisses—it was so nice, Draco mused, to be in a relationship once again. He had almost forgotten how nice it was to kiss just for the fun of it—just because nothing else could quite express that emotion that welled up inside his chest like a kiss could. Not even sex could express that emotion so fully.

Eventually they separated, though they only had just less than two hours to sleep. Harry couldn't stop smiling as he settled down for sleep, trying to relive every single kiss, every single moment and look and touch that he could before he went to sleep. He only got through half the day's memories before he drifted off to unconsciousness.

**xxx**

Harry was woken by a perky Mrs. Weasley at exactly 7:30 in the morning. He groggily looked up at her smiling face and bright red hair, trying to decide whether he should hex her and return to sleep or just get up and save himself the torture, but the decision was taken from him when she waved her wand and had him out of bed—briefs and all—and waving wildly around the room. She continued tossing him about until he proved he was awake by yelling and attempting to grab a pair of pants as she tossed him close to his dresser. He landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor, the pants a bit away.

He blushed furiously, and Mrs. Weasley laughed. "Don't worry, dear—it's nothing I've not seen before, what with so many boys in my house. Next time, don't let me catch you still asleep—I've raised six boys, and I know how to get them up in the morning. Breakfast will be ready in a few moments, and I expect you to be down there before I call your name, or you'll face a nasty surprise. Now, I'm off to wake your friends—Hermione and Blaise are downstairs, but you, Ron, and your friend Draco enjoy your sleep.

Mrs. Weasley bustled out of the room, leaving Harry with mixed emotions—he couldn't tell if he wanted to scream with embarrassment, crawl back in bed despite her warning, or laugh at the picture of Draco being waved wildly in the air by an overenthusiastic Mrs. Weasley.

**xxx**

**A/N: **Well, there you go. For a sneak preview of the next chapter, see the forum **Food for Thought**, which you can find by visiting my profile. Johnny would like to add that waving Harry and Draco wildly in the air was his idea, and you will all suffer the same fate if you do not review.

**Important to know:** the chapter for next week will be postponed until I return. Expect it Saturday evening or sometime Sunday.

**The Most Important A/N:** I will give a **full chapter** a day or so in **advance** to its posting if someone **illustrates** a scene (or more than one; I'm not picky). I am inept at drawing more than a straight line and the occasional swirly design. Please email any contributions to I will love you forever and possibly worship you. Remember, there's a chapter in advance! Draw for me! If you are at a loss as to what to draw, I suggest the chocolate-pounce scene (in more than one panel, obviously). It's one of my favorites. Or you can let me know what _your_ favorite scene is!


	23. Pranks

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Chapter 23: Pranks**

**A/N:** I must say that I am terribly sorry for the delay. If you checked the forum, you saw that I've been busy, but that is no excuse. This is not the edited version; that version will be up as soon as I get it back from my beta, but I didn't want you all to wait any longer. So forgive the corrections, please, and forgive my tardiness. If it helps, you can blame it all on Johnny, but I don't think he'd care too much for being the scapegoat.

**xxx**

Harry had always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Platform 9¾ just before the Hogwarts Express took off. Parents wishing their children well, pale first years dreading the sorting process, which was sure to contain ogres and dragons and other such monsters, and the more confident returning students who were greeting their friends and speculating on the who the new DADA teacher would be.

Harry, Hermione and Ron were sure to keep a safe distance from Blaise and Draco so as not to seem suspicious; they didn't want to act like friends, but if they were within any reasonable distance, they would be expected to fight.

Harry watched as a mother kissed her child, probably a first year, goodbye. "Don't worry, sweetie. Daddy and I will see you at Christmas, and I'm sure you won't even notice how long that is—you won't even remember you're away from home." The first year sniffled and muttered something about not wanting to go, but the mother gently turned him towards the train and pushed him aboard.

"Harry," said Hermione, regaining his attention, "we should find a spot. Ron and I have to go to the Prefects meeting, and we'll be back after a bit."

Harry nodded. "Let's find a compartment, and I can watch your stuff, eat some chocolate, and mourn my lack of leadership," he said jokingly.

They found an empty compartment near the middle of the train and loaded their luggage; Harry waved off his friends as they went to the prefect meeting—Hermione looked anticipative mother hen, and Ron looked akin to a the peacock with the brightest feathers in the world. At first, Harry had worried that Hermione, Ron, and Blaise (who was a prefect as well) would somehow refuse the prank because of their duty to leadership, but even Hermione had brushed off the responsibility—the prank was relatively harmless and, if all went well, no one would know whom the culprits were. Harry himself was glad not to have the prefect's status—it would only add more followers to his fan club and draw more attention than he already had, if that were even possible.

Harry spread out on one of the benches and took out a bar of chocolate, as he had planned. He also pulled out his Potions textbook; it was the only subject he was truly worried about this year, and he planned to get at least the first chapter finished before he got off the train so that he wouldn't be terribly far behind. He wanted to prove to Snape that he could do well in Potions, no matter what it took.

Harry only got to page thirteen before he was interrupted. Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were taking their yearly rounds down through the train; Harry assumed that if they had not made this trip, someone might have become suspicious, though, in all likelihood, few would care and those that did could be brushed off. Harry was already prepared for this, having been forewarned by Draco that morning in the car.

"What do we have here?" drawled Draco, all traces of the personality Harry had come to know over the summer hidden. "Little Potty without his lackies? How surprising. Have even those who you called friends deserted you, Potter?"

"Lay off, Malfoy," said Harry, not even looking up from his book.

"That was an insult if I ever heard one, don't you think, Crabbe?" Crabbe grunted—or, at least, Harry thought it was Crabbe. He wasn't quite sure. Harry could hear the underlying amusement in Draco's voice and had to resist the urge to smile. "Can't come up with anything more intelligent, Potter?" taunted Malfoy.

If Harry hadn't gotten to know Malfoy better over the summer, and if he didn't know this was all an act, he probably would have been enraged. Instead, he calmly looked up from his book and took another bite of chocolate, chewing it lazily. He regarded Draco with apathetic eyes for a moment, then returned to his book, flicking the page nonchalantly as he did.

Draco made a sound of frustration. "Come on. He's not worth our trouble." Draco stormed out of the compartment with a flourish of his cape, quickly followed by Crabbe and Goyle, who had yet to say a coherent word.

Harry sat back in his chair and watched Draco go—specifically, watched Draco's lower half go. He smiled to himself; if people only knew what was going through his head.

**xxx**

Hermione and Ron arrived in the compartment a little over an hour, and Harry was beginning to get bored. Suddenly, the compartment door opened; Harry looked up expectantly, but was surprised at who walked in—Blaise.

"Hello, Blaise," Harry said pleasantly (after checking to make sure no others were around to hear him 'consorting with the enemy' or some such thing.

"Hello, Harry. Already starting on your Potions homework?" Harry nodded. "Congratulations. You very well might be the most motivated person on this train."

Harry shrugged. "I want to pass Potions this year. It's important to me. And I want Professor Snape to know I'm trying hard, because I know he doesn't think so."

"After this, I'm sure he will. May I sit down?"

Harry nodded, and Blaise sat across from him on one of the benches. "Hermione and Ron are shortly behind me, by the way; I was probably only three cars in front of them, but they ran into Dean and Seamus, so they might take a little longer."

"Thanks. That's nice to know; I was getting bored without them."

"Well, it gives us a little time to talk, anyways. I—I have something to say to you," said Blaise, who was suddenly twiddling his thumbs; it was the most nervous Harry had ever seen him, and it was creepy.

Blaise suddenly looked up, cast a silencing, locking and alert charm, and looked back at Harry. "Now we have some privacy."

Harry was scared. Sure, Blaise had a skill at making a conversation comfortable, he also had a skill at making it uncomfortable. "Yes, Blaise?" Harry asked cautiously.

Harry looked up. Blaise had a look of intense concentration on his face, as if what he had to say was very important and could wait no longer. "This is the first chance we've had to talk alone, so I figured I'd take it, and—you have to know, Harry. Draco's my best friend, and, for a while, he was more—for a very long while. I love him—still do, and always will, though I know it would never work out with him. He's happy with you, and that's a good thing."

"Thank you," said Harry, still keeping his eyes on Blaise. "I'm happy he's happy, too."

"He smiles with you. It took me almost two months to get a smile out of him often enough to know he was doing better. I made him eat more, because I was afraid for his health. I made him send the knife back home, because I was afraid for his life. But none of it worked—he stopped smiling, he stopped eating, and he started cutting."

"Blaise, I know all this story—you don't have to—"

Blaise held up a hand. "Yes, Harry, I do have to. You know what Draco's told you—but you don't know the entire story. I loved Draco—I still love Draco. I know I've already said that, and I'd say it again. But you have to know—it is because I love him that I am doing this."

"You're not going to give me the 'you hurt him, I kill you' speech, are you?" asked Harry, trying to sound joking, but sounding more like a terrified little girl. Blaise was a scary person when he wanted to be.

"Not yet. That's later. First, you have to understand." Blaise smiled, and Harry almost relaxed—then he saw Blaise was telling the truth, and he became more terrified. "I'm envious of you, Harry." Harry gave Blaise a questioning look, but he refused to interrupt. "You were able to do everything I did for Draco in less time with more success. He smiles frequently now, and you can tell he's happy. You have him eating larger, healthier meals than I had him eating after almost half a year of coercion. Most importantly, you have nearly eradicated Draco's desire to hurt himself in any way. I don't know how you've done it, having had only two weeks when I had almost six months. And it's not the only reason I know you two are right for each other."

Harry opened his mouth, but Blaise cut him off before he could utter a syllable. "Don't argue. I can read people better than most people can read books, and you guys are right for each other. You enjoy each other's presence, despite your differences; you make each other laugh, and neither of you obsess over the big things, like being the 'Boy-Who-Lived' or a Death Eater's son. You each have the desire to start over and make something better. And, somehow, you're each solving the other's problems without even trying."

Harry looked down. "I am trying, though," he said. "Harder than you can imagine. But it doesn't always work, you know?"

Blaise smiled a bit, though Harry couldn't see it. "I would hope that, after all these years, Gryffindors might have acquired better listening skills. You've done more with Draco than I could have accomplished in years. And I actually have a little advice for you, to make it better—little tricks I've learned."

Harry looked up again and smiled timidly. "You're not going to blackmail or bribe me, are you?" he asked jokingly.

"My only blackmail and bribe, together, is Draco."

"Fair enough," said Harry.

"Don't keep anything from him, no matter how big or little. If you hurt yourself, tell him, because it will hurt and offend him that you didn't come to him. If you kiss another guy, whether on accident or on purpose, tell him—he _will_ find out, and you won't want it to be from somewhere else. Tell him how good or bad your day is, because he really does care, despite the cold, outer shell."

Harry nodded. "That's good to know. Thank you."

"There's more, actually. Keep an eye on him, and don't get disheartened. Though he'll want you to tell him everything, he won't necessarily do so with you. If he has a bad day, there's a good chance he'll be cheery just for you. If he has a good day, he won't shut up about it, of course, but you'll never know if he has a bad day if he has anything to say about it, and he usually does. Don't expect him to tell you all his secrets."

"More important than that, though, is to not give up—he can be mean and cynical, especially when he's reminded of his parents. He'll get depressed—and it's not like having a bad day for him, but believing that his life's not worth living to have any more bad days. He'll see himself as useless, or as not worthy of you. He might resort to eating less again, or mutilation, or distancing himself. Whatever you think, it's not because he doesn't love you. It's because he's messed up, and he needs fixing. No matter how much I love him, he belongs with you. I'm so _jealous _that you are able to do so much with him—that he tells you so much and does so much for you. It just proves how much he really cares and wants this to work."

"Wow. Thank you, Blaise. I—there's not much I can say."

Blaise shrugged and looked at the floor. "I know. But don't worry. Just that he's told you as much as he has, that he really _tries_ to eat more and is actually cheery all the time, not just forcing it—all of that shows that you and he have already gone farther than we ever could. He tells you more than I think he's ever told me, even if I know all his secrets. Don't look at me surprised—I have my ways to figure things out, and I know much more than he thinks. But he actually tells you those things voluntarily. He trusts you with so much, including his heart, and that's pretty fragile. If you had seen him after we broke up…he did not do very well, even though it was a mutual decision and the conversation was brought up by him. He wants to do things for you, like eat more and avoid sharp objects."

Harry wasn't sure why Blaise was having this conversation with him. The Slytherin had never seen the type to tell all his heart's secrets, let alone to someone he barely knew. Still, Harry new there was something important about this. If he had to guess, Blaise was scared—scared of himself, and scared that Draco would be hurt as in the past. Blaise wanted this to work because he loved Harry, and me might just be telling Harry all this because of that very reason—they both loved Draco, and that gave them something in common that could never be duplicated or imitated. On some level, they had a deeper understanding of each other than they had of themselves. Blaise was probably telling Harry all this because there was no one else to tell—no one else to understand the pain, the torture that had been experienced. There was no one else to help, either.

Harry nodded, sobered by all the information he was getting. "I'm sorry it didn't work out between you two," he said softly, and found that he was telling the truth. He had been, at first, jealous and protective when he learned of Blaise's remaining feelings. Now, though, he thought he understood.

Blaise looked up from the compartment floor. There were tears in his eyes. "I'm not. No matter how much I loved him, it never would have worked—he never would have loved me enough to stop cutting or start eating. Harry, don't let the fights set. If you find something annoying—even if it's how he brushes his hair out of his eyes or always talks down to people—tell him. Because that's how we were ruined."

Blaise buried his face in his hands, and Harry wasn't sure what to do—he wasn't about to hug Blaise, but he didn't have any other way to comfort him. He settled for remaining quietly in his seat, where it was neutral ground. "There were too many little fights we never had, and then we had a big one. A really big one, and we couldn't mend it well enough to start over. So now we're just friends. Really good friends. And I love him more than he'll know, but I know more than I love that we could not work. We can't get past those little things anymore. That's—that's why it has to work out with you and him. It just has to. Draco needs to be taken care of, and you seem to be able to do that better than I could ever dream of."

Harry nodded. "Thank you. I won't let things set. It will work out. I promise." Harry paused, thinking. "It wouldn't have worked, though, if you hadn't been there first." Blaise looked up, questioning. "Even if I've done more than you in less time, you are smarter than this to think that it's all my doing. Without you, Draco wouldn't have—well, I don't want to think where he'd be right now. Dead, maybe. Certainly worse off, because, no matter what you think now, you helped him more than you could imagine. No, it wasn't as much as you wanted, but it was enough to keep him sane. I don't know if I would have had the patience, frankly. And, without you, there might never have been a 'Draco and me.' So I am eternally in your debt for just encouraging us."

"Thank you, Harry," said Blaise quietly.

"You're right. Draco's messed up, and he needs fixing. But you're wrong about one thing—I can't do it myself. Between us, we can both fix him. We'll make things work." Harry smiled, feeling that he had said the right thing.

Blaise sniffed and dried his tears. He looked at himself in the reflection on the window and brushed his hair out of the way. "You're right. We'll make it work. Now, though, I have something entirely different to say." Blaise turned back to Harry, who gulped and shrank into his seat. The conversation had taken an entirely different tone, all of a sudden. "Now that I have given you and Draco my blessing, I must tell you that if you ever hurt him—physically, mentally, or any combination of the two, I will personally rip out your testicles with my bear hands, cook them in a stew, and feed them to you. Then I will eviscerate you and hang you from the tallest tower of Hogwarts, Savior-be-damned."

Harry gave a small noise that sounded somewhere between a "yessir" and "meep." Blaise nodded and smiled, satisfied. "Good. I'm glad we could have this conversation. Ron and Hermione are on their way—they're just now exiting the next compartment over. I will see you after our little welcome back, then."

Blaise ended the spells on the compartment with a wave of his wand and walked out, greeting Ron and Hermione on his way. Harry's two friends walked in happily, greeting him with warm smiles and a hug. "Did you and Blaise have a nice conversation?" asked Hermione. She looked as if she had just been kissing Ron, which she probably had been—one last show of affection before duties took over.

"Yes," said Harry thoughtfully. "It was…important." Hermione looked at Harry with raised eyebrows, but did not question.

Ron, luckily, distracted them all. "Mate, is that a Potions text book in your lap?" Harry looked down and nodded. "Mate, even Hermione's not that crazy. Enjoy your last few moments before Snape murders you with some potion that's so subtle it looks like an accident."

Harry shrugged. "I want to pass, Ron. This year I don't have an excuse—I'm in the NEWTS course, so I have to keep up. But I have Hermione, Blaise and Draco now. I'll be fine as long as I can read the book and talk with them."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You're bloody mad."

Ron and Hermione sat across from Harry, and they started a nice conversation. Harry informed them in the confrontation with Draco, and they informed him on all the latest gossips—after all, rounds were useful for something.

Finally, they quieted down. Hermione pulled out her Arithmancy book, much to Ron's disgust; Harry continued to hold his Potions textbook in his lap, attempting to study. Ron, in defiance of them both, laid his head in Hermione's lap and took a nap, only waking to get a couple of chocolate frogs from the trolley.

Harry, despite his good intentions of studying Potions, found himself staring into the passing landscape, letting the colors blur his vision so that he could think. Everything Blaise had said was important—from the death threat if harm befell Draco, to the tips on how to keep the relationship strong, to the sad, nostalgic reminiscence of his own love for the blonde.

Harry was, all in all, quite shocked. He had not realized how deeply Blaise's feelings for Draco had run. He would try to be careful around Blaise, and, if only because Blaise wanted it, he would make this work. Sure, he wanted it to work, too—but it was somehow more important that he do this for Blaise, and not himself.

**xxx**

Harry relaxed in his seat; the others were off preparing their parts of the prank. Luckily, his part was already finished, so he could sit back and relax. He watched as the students settled down—greeting friends and talking about summers. Draco was already seated, looking relaxed and excited all at the same time. He was reveling in his friends' attentions; they had all thought him kidnapped or dead, and he was basking in the glow of their attentions. Harry jealously sent Pansy an evil glare from across the Great Hall, which he was sure she couldn't see; she was hanging all over Draco, batting her eyes and licking her lips. Harry had to suppress a serious desire to maim her.

Harry looked up to see Blaise walk in and casually stroll over to the Slytherin table. Before he sat down, he looked up, caught Harry's eye, and winked. Harry briefly smiled back and looked away so as not to draw suspicion. He looked just in time to see Ron and Hermione stroll in together, looking content and happy with themselves. Harry already knew that they had successfully carried out their part of the deal.

The two sat down next to Harry and smiled widely—yes, their part had been carried out successfully. "That didn't take long," said Harry.

"It wasn't as hard as we had expected. The paintings were surprisingly amiable," said Hermione. "Actually, it was quite an easy task. Are the other two done?"

"Yeah. All we have to do now is wait," said Harry. "And here come the first years."

Hermione, Ron and Harry turned to greet the opening doors, which ushered in a bunch of terrified little boys and girls. Harry wondered if he had ever been that small and frightened looking and assumed that yes, at some point in time, he had to have been. He didn't remember it, though.

The ceremony itself was uneventful, though Harry thought that Ron was going to jump out of his seat with anticipation before the night ended. Gryffindor won eight girls and five boys, which was comparatively high with the past few years; Harry thought darkly that they needed all the brave people they could get in this world, but quickly brushed the thoughts away—he wasn't going to depress himself when something so marvelous was about to happen.

Finally, Dumbledore stood up to make his yearly speech, emphasizing unity between houses and strength in friendships. Harry listened only half-heartedly, as Dumbledore rarely changed everything he said. He introduced the newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Harry missed her name, but she was a young, spry-looking woman with wild hair and a cheery disposition. Snape, who had the misfortune of sitting next to her over-energized person, rolled his eyes and grimaced.

Finally, Dumbledore clapped and the food appeared on the table. Harry grinned mischievously and ate quickly—they had decided to finish their meals early so that their food would not be affected. Harry would signal Dobby to add the right ingredients when they were ready—and not a second before. They would feign being under the influence of the prank for a little while, so as to not draw suspicion upon themselves, but they would have none of the ill effects of the prank to deal with.

Harry looked up as he finished his roast; Draco and Blaise were still eating at their table, so he moved on to dessert. When he finished the pudding, he looked up again—they were ready. Blaise met his eyes, and Draco nodded his head discretely. Harry discretely signaled Ron and Hermione beside him so they would know not to eat much more. Ron made a big gesture of shoving his plate aside and claiming a large breakfast and lunch. Hermione politely put down her fork and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry downed the rest of his pumpkin juice; it was the signal for Dobby. There was a spell that monitored the glasses in the Great Hall and kept them full, but the House Elves could always tell whose glass was whose and kept an eye on the proceedings so that no one got what he or she did not want. Dobby had agreed to take that job that night. Harry finished every last drop of juice and set the glass down.

Nothing happened. Harry looked to Hermione, who lifted an eyebrow, and Ron, who shrugged. He looked across the hall to Draco and Blaise, who were looking around to watch the effects take place and not paying any attention to the Gryffindors across the way.

At first, Harry thought the potion Blaise had brewed was not correct, but he dismissed the idea—Blaise was far too competent a brewer, and the potion was correct. As he was musing on what reasons the potion might have failed, he heard it—a hiccup.

The first one came from some Ravenclaw second year girl who was sitting near the end of the table. No one thought anything of it as she washed down more pumpkin juice to try to rid herself of the nasty hiccups. Then another caught the hiccups—a fifth year Hufflepuff. Then another Ravenclaw. A Slytherin. Two Gryffindors caught it almost simultaneously. Soon the entire hall was full of hiccups. A few were unable to speak due to the intensity of their hiccups; those who had nearly full control were questioning as to what was happening.

Harry, Hermione and Ron all made an effort to hiccup with the others, though they felt no urge. If anyone had been paying attention, they might have wondered at the lack of uniform in their hiccups—not spaced evenly or of the same intensity in any way or form. Luckily, the students were too absorbed with their own problems to care much. Harry spared a glance for the teachers' table and nearly laughed aloud; Dumbledore was merrily going along with the prank. The new Defense teacher looked amused; McGonnagal looked shocked and annoyed; Snape looked outright murderous. Harry almost wished he could be near Snape to hear what the Professor's hiccups were liked—he bet they were the snort-squeaky kind.

Harry spared another glance for the Slytherin table, where two of the accomplices were sitting; he nodded. That was Draco's signal.

Suddenly, balloons began spilling from out of nowhere. Some flew through open windows and the large doors to the Great Hall, which had been opened to help the air circulate through the room and dampen some of the sound. Other balloons fell from the ceiling, or even appeared out of thin air next to a student to fly full-force into his or her face. The balloons were filled with magically enhanced paint; they were all bright and gaudy colors, and the paint wouldn't come off for a week or more. Harry couldn't hold it in any more—he laughed loudly as Neville got a neon pink balloon right in the face.

Harry shielded himself from the worst of the balloons, but didn't try to stop all the paint. He had to look similar to the other victims, after all. Now, among the hiccups, were screams of pain, frustration, surprise, and joy—some of the students had taken to picking up un-exploded balloons and chucking them at their enemies or, even better, their friends. Harry laughed when he saw that a particularly nasty shade of purple had hit Draco square in the chest. Blaise was colored green and yellow and blue and did not look too happy with the combination.

Finally, colored sparks and a loud sound emitted from Dumbledore's wand. He said, in a _Sonorous_-enhanced voice, "Students! If you could all calm down, you will find that the balloons have stopped"—Dumbledore hiccupped—"flying of their own accord. Please settle"—hiccup—"into your seats. If no one else is eating, could we have the Prefects take the students"—hiccup—"to their rooms so that we may clean up?"

The prefects stood. Hermione was a bright shade of blue, and Ron was colored orange and pink, which, Harry had to admit, was particularly atrocious. The students followed Ron and Hermione out of the Hall, and Harry found the cowering of the first years more amusing now that they were bright, multi-colored shapes. The crowds were still hiccupping loudly. Harry noticed that a few had managed to stop and grinned; the hiccups would only stop if the student said or did something particularly embarrassing.

Harry got up to follow Harry and Hermione and witness the final part of the prank—the passwords. Harry could barely repress his giggles as they headed towards Gryffindor Tower. He could see Draco trailing down to the dungeons behind the small group of first years, with Blaise in the lead. Of course, Blaise, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Draco all knew the modified passwords; the problem was, no one else—not even Dumbledore—knew.

Hermione had spent long hours researching (more like twenty minutes, but Harry liked to embellish the story in his mind) on how to secretly change the passwords in Hogwarts. She had found a small reference in _Hogwarts, a History_, used that reference to find another reference in a completely different but equally large, heavy and dusty old tome, and finally found in the larger, yet not as dusty tome how to change the passwords. With a little modification to the spell, she could even change them without the Headmaster's approval or knowledge.

Harry believed it to have been a marvelous idea to change the passwords to every single dormitory so that each and every student standing in the hallway had to chorus the school Alma Mater to get in. Blaise, Ron and Hermione had run off to change as many passwords as possible before the feast in the Great Hall. In retrospect, it might not have been the best idea to place such a charm on the doors of each and every teacher's office—even the Headmaster's. McGonnagal was especially lived and demanded to know the password to her room. The crowd shifted and looked around, but no one came forward. She took points (hiccupping in the middle of her sentence and earning giggles and a red face). Still, no one came forward.

Finally, the Headmaster came around to the group of students who were standing in the hallways. Harry's grin grew wider at the Headmaster's twinkle. "It took me a little work," he said in his warm voice, hiccupping in the middle, "but I have figured it out. Now, if you all would join me—at your own pace, of course, as tradition decrees."

The Headmaster started singing the school anthem; the words were interrupted by frequent hiccups and the occasional giggle, but more and more people joined in. With a little nudge, the Headmaster even convinced Professor McGonnagal to join in, though she was slightly redder than before, and her hiccups were coming more frequently. As the last students chorused the last line, the door opened.

The Fat Lady grimaced in the portrait. "See your prefects for the new password," she shrilled. "I never want to go through that again." Harry heard her mutter something about 'no respect for the art of singing' as he walked by; he chuckled. He had often caught her practicing her opera, and, though he had never thought her good, she was far more talented than a bunch of off-key Gryffindors.

Harry raced Ron to their rooms, where they collapsed in laughter. Dean, Seamus and Neville followed at a slower pace, giving the two a wide birth incase what they had was contagious. Harry noted bemusedly that Neville had stopped hiccupping, but the other two had yet to discover the key.

Harry forced a hiccup and looked at Ron, then at his watch. It was just past nine o'clock. Curfew would be in effect in a little less than an hour. It was time to find Hermione and head to the room of requirement.

Harry had to suppress a fluttery feeling as he thought of seeing Draco again; luckily, Ron didn't notice his brief halt in speech—he was too busy regaling the events he had seen, despite the fact that Harry had been there and seen them, too.

"Oh, mate, the look on Snape's face—did you see it as he was hit with that lilac balloon? And then the orange one right after it? He looked murderous. And then there was Crabbe; his hiccups sounded like a little girl's! And they were loud; you could hear them all the way across the Great Hall. It was marvelous—bloody marvelous. Hey, Hermione—do you feel like a stroll?" he said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I must say, that shade of blue is particularly fetching on you."

Hermione giggled and offered Ron her hand. "My dear, please never buy an orange shirt. Or a pink shirt. And particularly never together."

Ron and Harry laughed as they continued out the door. The Fat Lady whispered the password after them—_hiccup_—and they went to the Room of Requirement. When they had a chance, Harry stopped and clapped his hands. Hermione and Ron waited around the corner to watch for anyone who might be coming, though they doubted any nasty surprises.

Dobby appeared in front of Harry with a small _pop_. He was dressed in four too many socks, not counting three pairs he had on his feet. None matched—not even the colors came close. He was wearing a pink toga and a red and orange flower on his breast, and he had a particularly happy grin on his face.

"Thank you, Dobby," Harry said, "for all your help tonight."

Dobby hiccupped. "Oh, Master Harry—Dobby enjoyed hisself greatly tonight, that he did. Dobby will be glad to assist more pranks—he _wants_ to help Master Harry! Anything for his kind, wonderful, generous friend."

Harry laughed. "You didn't get into the pumpkin juice, did you?"

Dobby looked at his feet and wrung his hands. "Dobby just wanted to try it, is all. It just seemed so—"

"No, Dobby, don't worry. I'm not scolding you. It's just a little amusing. I was wondering; could you help me with one more thing?"

Dobby looked up eagerly. "Of course, Master Harry! Anything for Dobby's benevolent friend! Anything for the friend who freed Dobby from the evil clutches of his former Master!" Dobby looked around nervously again. "I didn't mean it, Sir," he said in a cracking voice, as if afraid Lucius would jump out from behind a corner, wielding a wand with his white-blonde hair flying lusciously behind him. "I—Dobby didn't mean to say anything bad about his former Masters."

Harry laughed again. "Don't worry, Dobby. I'm sure they wouldn't mind. Could you just get some refreshments and bring them up to the Room of Requirement. I don't really want to trust whatever it is that room would give us—who knows where it was gotten from? And please—make sure it's safe."

"Of course, Master Harry. It will be there right away."

"There will be five of us, Dobby. And—could you bring some ice cream? Chocolate, preferably. And syrup. Lots of syrup." Not even Ron could miss the eager and slightly scary grin on Harry's face, but neither of his friends asked him about it. Harry was strange; that's all they really knew.

Dobby nodded and disappeared with a crack. Harry turned back to his friends. "Well, Blaise and Draco are probably already there. We should be on our way." He walked down the hall, a bounce in his step and a look in his eye that Hermione couldn't quite place. Something was up, she could tell—she just couldn't tell what—yet.

Harry had warned Draco and Blaise against going into the Room before they had all arrived; sometimes, if you weren't careful, you ended up in different Rooms without even knowing it. He found them waiting in front of the door expectantly, and he bounced up to greet them. "Evening, friends! Let us celebrate in proper style—Dobby is bringing some snacks up for us as we speak."

Harry pranced happily in front of the door three times, not quite sure how he had gained this much energy. He assumed it was from the pranks. Or from the intoxicating presence Draco emitted, which he had been missing since they had to part ways earlier that morning. He just hadn't noticed how badly he had missed it until they were back together. After all, they had spent the better part of three weeks together—alone, for the most part, and unable to escape the other's presence. He had grown used to it. He enjoyed it. He wanted more of it.

The other four followed Harry into the Room; it was decorated gaily with ribbons and streamers, sporting two couches and a large armchair. Harry belatedly remembered that thinking of spending time with Draco had not been conducive to creating the room. He could only thank whatever gods were out there that a small, romantic room with a single couch—or, Merlin forbid, a bed—had not appeared.

Blaise looked around the room, hands on hips. "That's the last time we let Harry summon the room," he said. "This is far too—too—"

"It's too _Gryffindor_," finished Draco. "At least it's not all red and gold."

Harry shrugged. He didn't care. He thought about taking the arm chair and leaving Blaise and Draco to sit together, but then decided against it—he was in too good a mood, and he wanted to celebrate that mood by being near Draco, even if it was only superficial. He sat happily at the end of one of the armchairs and gestured for the others to join him.

Situated in the center of the small circle formed by the armchairs was a table, which had already been filled with snacks. Dobby had left a small note in the middle of the tray.

Dobby hopes Master Potter and friends  
have a wonderful evening. Dobby offers his services  
for another day. Dobby will not know if his Masters  
if they are out late at night. 

Harry smiled. "Dobby sends his love and tells us to stay out as late as we want tonight," he said. "And he made us cookies." Harry read another small note scrawled—slightly less readable, if possible—at the bottom of the page. "And he says that the ice cream is in the refrigerator by the door."

Draco sat gingerly on the other end of the couch, knowing full well what Harry's intentions were—to sit near him and flirt mercilessly all night, and hopefully snag a kiss at the very end of it all. Draco wasn't objecting.

Ron and Hermione curled up on the other couch, and Draco absently thought that he would need to get Blaise hooked up with someone—though he wasn't obvious by any means, Draco could tell that Blaise felt a bit put out as he settled his yellow spotted, blue striped, green splotched body into the maroon armchair.

Harry pulled his feet up onto the couch and let them rest discretely against Draco. Right now, he didn't care if anyone saw him, even if Hermione was smart and looking at him—and his feet, as if they had done something against her—curiously. She would figure it out eventually, and Harry didn't really care when anymore.

They sat down for a long discussion on the prank—what was perfect and what could have been improved. Draco and Blaise regaled the other three with a story about how the Headmaster had tried to convince the Slytherin house to sing the Alma Mater, but only half the students joined in and the passageway wouldn't open. They had to try twice more to get into the common rooms, and, by the end of it, the older students had looked particularly murderous and Dumbledore—still hiccupping and still adorned in a gaudy set of multifarious colors—even more amused than before.

"McGonnagal, at least, has stopped hiccupping," said Hermione with a grin on her blue face. "She just couldn't take the idea of singing the Alma Mater to get the doors to her office open—she even had to bring in a few students, because the doors wouldn't open if it was just her. There had to be a group."

Draco burst out laughing. "Oh—Snape was one even better. He refused—_refused_—to sing, so Dumbledore recruited a few of the braver Hufflepuffs to come sing the door open. He was absolutely livid. Hufflepuff may very well be in the negative points before classes even start, at this rate."

Harry got up and retrieved the ice cream from the refrigerator, doling out a healthy portion of ice cream and syrup for all his friends. As he spooned out the scoops, he said, "You know, we should pull another prank. And we need a name—a sign, or something. So that people will know it's the same pranksters, but they won't know who."

"That's a marvelous idea, mate!" exclaimed Ron. "We could call ourselves the Chudley Canons, or something!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "No matter how appealing that may seem, it is out of the question. We must come up with something decidedly more original than naming ourselves after a Quidditch team."

Ron glowered, but agreed. "Yes, I suppose. Well, what do you suggest, then?"

"I suggest we think for a bit, and then we'll decide the next time we meet," said Blaise. "It can't be obvious, though—it has to be subtle. Something that says Slytherin and Gryffindor have joined forces, but in such a way that you'd have to really think about it to understand."

"Sounds good to me," said Hermione, sending Ron a look that told him not to argue. Ron's reddish face did not help the orange and pink covering his body, and Harry had to bite back a laugh. "And we can come up with ideas for pranks between now and then, too." Ron brightened considerably as he took a bowl of ice cream from Harry. The room was filled with the almost-quiet clinks of spoons against porcelain as the group reveled in their ice cream.

Draco sat in his seat, fully aware that Harry was pressing his cold—cold!—feet against his thighs and that the ice cream was a signal from Harry, and that there was a purposeful smear of chocolate down the side of his face. Harry licked the spoon he held slowly, carefully, making sure to get every ounce of chocolate off of it, yet still managing to smear some on his nose. Draco gulped and focused on his own ice cream.

Hermione looked at the clock that was on the wall. "Oh, dear," she said with a sigh. "It's well past ten thirty. Ron and I must go tuck in the first years and help them—there was one girl that already looked homesick, and I feel bad for her."

Harry smiled at the pair. "Fine—go off and have some time to yourselves. I see how it is. You leave me here with two Slytherins—snakes, of all things—so that you can indulge in your own pleasures."

Hermione looked back, worried, but smiled as she saw the genuine mirth in Harry's face. She was glad that he was finally happy for their relationship, and she was even happier that he had found friends he was comfortable with. She knew it had been hard on him, but she hadn't been able to contain her love for Ron, but it seemed all of that was behind them now.

Hermione and Ron went off—supposedly to find an unused classroom for a few minutes. Harry watched them go; when he heard the door click firmly shut, he allowed himself to sink further into the couch and, therefore, sink further into Draco. He turned to look at Blaise, who merely raised an eyebrow in response and winked.

"It has been a marvelous day, my friends," said Blaise with a smirk, "but I, too, must be off to take care of the insipid first years. Enjoy yourselves here, and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He slipped out of the room quietly, shutting the door firmly behind. Draco turned to Harry and said, dryly, "In other words, he means we should do whatever we want."

Harry laughed and turned himself so that he could be wrapped in Draco's arms. He let Draco kiss the chocolate off his face, relishing in the sensation it gave him. "I wouldn't be so sure of that; he seems to have morals," said Harry playfully. He kissed a slash of pink that crossed the purple color on Draco's face.

"It's all an act," said Draco as he kissed the underside of Harry's jaw. "He's never had morals when it comes to his libido. Actually, he could use some, sometimes."

Harry laughed and reached up to finally claim Draco's lips; he felt like he was in some Muggle romance novel, but he was fine with that. "That was a nice little act you put on for the train ride today," he said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I could have up and kissed you, and neither Crabbe nor Goyle would have noticed. No—that's not true; they probably would have thought it some part of my grand, master scheme."

Harry grinned. "Well, maybe you should try it out next time," he said, kissing Draco again. He rolled onto his stomach to get a better position, but found it only more awkward than the last. In the end, he sat up and pulled Draco to him, figuring that was a better solution than most.

"I just might," said Draco, deepening the kiss.

Harry laughed around. "You never cease to entertain me, Dray," said Harry, smiling widely.

Draco couldn't help it—he flinched. He tried not to—he had known it was coming—but he couldn't help it. He flinched. He couldn't deal with it—he didn't like it when Harry called him that. He hoped, on some level, that Harry had not seen it—that he was oblivious in his ministrations—but that was not the case.

Harry pulled back, a little worried. "What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Draco, smiling. At the very least, he might be able to brush it off and postpone this conversation for later—or, if he were lucky, he would get used to the nickname coming from Harry and just deal with it.

"Don't tell me nothing, Draco Malfoy. I might not be Blaise, but I can tell something happened."

"It's not important, Harry," said Draco. He wished Harry would just stop—he didn't want to deal with this conversation. Not when they were having such a nice night.

"Don't avoid the issue," said Harry, becoming a little frustrated. He wanted to know what had happened so it could be avoided in the future—he didn't want to offend or hurt Draco in some way. It was too early on for that.

Draco sat up, avoiding Harry's eyes by studying the walls. Harry followed suit, sitting up and maintaining a comfortable distance between them just in case, but he stared at Draco, trying to figure everything out. He didn't know Draco well enough—sure, he could tell when the blonde was happy or said, but he couldn't read the nuances in Draco very well. He was getting much better—the Malfoy Mask didn't always work anymore—but Harry wasn't perfect, and Draco had pulled the mask over his face, and he couldn't read anything.

"Please tell me, Draco," pleaded Harry.

Draco finally looked at Harry, apprehension breaking through the Mask. "Don't take this the wrong way, alright?" Harry nodded, though a sense of dread filled him. "I—Blaise and I were close. Really, really close." Harry nodded again, though the dread was growing more prominent. "And—well, he always called me Dray when we were alone together. It was his nickname for me, and I loved it. I still do…but, well…"

Harry smiled, thinking he understood. "I understand. It's special. So I shouldn't use it."

"Don't take it that way, Harry," said Draco, misreading the tone in Harry's voice. "It's not that I still have feelings for him—well, I do, but that's not what matters—it's that—"

"Wait…" interrupted Harry, his face becoming unreadable. "You still have feelings for him?"

Draco stopped, realizing what he had said. "I—no. I mean, yes, I do. I don't want to lie to you. But he and I will never work. We've tried it once, and if we tried it again, it would all end the same. You are similar to him, in some respects, but at the same time—you're so different, and it's exactly what I need. Please, Harry, don't take this the wrong way." Draco was floundering, and he knew it. He could only hope he could make Harry understand. Draco tried to reach for Harry's hand, but Harry pulled it back.

Harry nodded somberly, not even finding the many colors Draco was covered in funny anymore, and Draco could tell he was still trying to work through the information. "So you still have feelings for your ex-boyfriend, and you don't want me to call you 'Dray' because it reminds you of him."

"Don't say it that way, Harry. It's not like that at all. I said it would never work—he's the one who convinced me—showed me—that I liked you, and he helped me work it out so we were alone, and he wouldn't let me ruin it. It's not as bad as you think it is."

Harry looked into Draco's eyes. "I won't say I understand," he said, his voice tense, "but I'll deal with that. I like you, Draco. You know that. So I'm not going to make a big deal about this, because you say it's not important, and I trust you enough to believe that. But I'm not going to say that I understand. I won't. And I also won't say that I like it. But let's move on. We can discuss this at a later date, if it's still important then."

"I'm sorry, Harry. I've bunked this up awfully. Just—trust me, okay? I like you now, and that's not going to change."

Harry forced a smile. "Right, then. Well, I won't be calling you 'Dray' anytime soon, so no worries."

Draco smiled, though his was also a bit tense. "Thanks, Harry. Don't worry about it. Thing's will be wonderful—you'll see." Draco reached for Harry's hand again, and, this time, Harry allowed him to. Draco's smile relaxed, and he leaned forward to kiss Harry again. Harry tensed at first, but soon succumbed to the sensation, which was far to grand to hold a grudge through. After, maybe, but not through.

"We should go to bed," whispered Harry in Draco's ear.

Draco smiled. "We should," he said, breathing on Harry's ear, causing him to sigh, "but Filch would never find us."

Harry laughed and continued kissing Draco. Things would work themselves out, he figured. It probably wasn't that big a deal that Draco was reminded of his ex-boyfriend, whom he still had feelings for, by a nickname. It was no matter of importance, because they liked each other and that was all that they needed. At least, that's what he kept telling himself as he kissed the Slytherin underneath him.

**xxx**

**A/N:** Again, I apologize for the delay. Johnny is resentful that I told you to blame him, seeing as it was not inspiration's fault, but a severe lack of time. Visit the forum,**Food for Thought**,and I'll get a short preview up, but don't expect an actual excerpt from the chapter—I have yet to write that.

PS--Johnny will no longer be advising you to review; he got tired of the job. Instead, he will be inserting other comments as he feels necessary (I suggested that he just stop talking altogether, but he wouldn't take it). Anyways, he feels you are all smart enough to remember to review on your own.


	24. Interlude

**FOOD FOR THOUGHT**

**Interlude**

**xxx**

"What are we doing here again?" asked Harry curiously, his brow furrowed.

"For the last time," said Draco, rolling his eyes, "we're the _interlude_."

"Which means?" asked Harry.

"We're stalling for time."

"For who?"

"First off, it's 'for whom,' Harry. Second, who else? It's for the author."

"Why does she need us to stall for time?" asked Harry, his brow still creased. "And what do we have to do to stall?"

"She needs us to stall because between college, classes, work, life, and her own damn laziness, she doesn't have the next chapter even close to ready, and she wants to keep her readers at least mildly entertained." An impish grin spread across Draco's face. "And…to keep the readers 'mildly entertained,' she gave us express permission to do whatever we want." Draco started moving towards Harry, the impish grin on his face spreading even wider.

As enlightenment came to Harry, a smile spread across his face. He put down the drink in his hand and leaned forward to meet Draco halfway in a chaste kiss. Draco began to deepen the kiss, pulling Harry closer and intertwining his hands in dark, messy hair. He straddled Harry's lap, forcing his tongue into Harry's mouth as one hand strayed to begin unbuttoning his shirt.

Then Harry pulled away, his eyes glinting maliciously. "I want to work on a puzzle." Harry got up, unceremoniously dumping Draco onto the ground.

"But Harry," Draco whined. "This is all the action we'll be getting for a _while_!"

"Now, now. Don't give anything away. She'll have another chapter up before her life is over, if all goes well." Harry pulled out a puzzle from the bottom of a large stack of puzzles, which miraculously not fall over (hooray for magic). "She'll get something up here. Eventually."

"When's that?"

"Whenever she can revise the story."

"Why does she have to do that, again?"

"Because it sucks." There was a loud noise, and the room shook, disrupting many of the puzzle pieces on the table. "Okay, it doesn't suck. I apologize. It's just not up to her standards, and she wants to work on another story a little while she works out the kinks in this one. Now let me work on my puzzle."

"Come on, Harry!" Draco complained, crossing his arms. "She gave us _free rein_. I could ravish you right here and now, and no one would care. Actually, I'm pretty sure there are a couple readers who would rejoice."

"Yes, but that's not part of the plot, is it?" Harry dumped the puzzle pieces onto the table, beginning to quickly and efficiently sort them into edge pieces and center pieces.

"_This_ isn't part of the plot! It's a damned _interlude_! We're just here to entertain! The readers want entertainment! They want _sex_!"

Harry shrugged. He had finished sorting the pieces, so he began to put the edge together. "I think they'll live. Now, come help me with this puzzle. You know you want to."

"You can't resist me, Harry! Ravish me! Please?" Draco was getting desperate.

Harry finally looked up from his puzzle, one hand poised in midair. "Later. When they're not watching."

"Really?" Draco asked ecstatically.

"Yeah," said Harry, a feral grin across his face. "There are some things that I want to do that are absolutely not fit for publishing on the internet. We can't very well have the readers watching now, can we?"

Draco raised one eyebrow. "And what would these unpublishable acts be?"

"They wouldn't be unpublishable if I told you, now, would they?" At Draco's pout, Harry sighed. "I'll give you a hint. It involves chocolate. Lots and _lots_ of chocolate. And maybe some leather later on. Now come over here and help me work on this puzzle."

Draco happily bounced—yes, bounced—to the table the puzzle was resting on. "Right then. Puzzle." Draco momentarily looked at the puzzle, then at Harry. "Frankly, I don't think I can concentrate on the puzzle right now," he said.

Harry looked up and rolled his eyes. "And why would that be?"

Draco looked down. "Well…I'm a wee bit distracted."

Harry turned to stare eerily into space. "On a last note, the authoress would like to express her deep and sincere apologies that it has both taken so long to get a chapter out and taken so long to let you know what's going on. Now leave. I have matters to…attend to."

**xxx**

**A/N:** I think that just about explains it. I'm an over-achieving lazy girl who's overworked. Therefore, no chapters. For a while. Forgive me. Please continue to read when the next chapter is posted, but don't expect anything anytime soon. As soon as I've revised the previous chapters and figured out where the plotline has disappeared to, I'm explicitly yours. Well…not in a sexual sense, but otherwise, my readers own me. Thank you for your patience.


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